RUSSIAN    LYRICS 
&  COSSACK  SONGS 


Martha  Gilbert  Dickinson  Bianchi 


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RUSSIAN   LYRICS 


SONGS  OF  COSSACK,  LOVER, 
PATRIOT  AND   PEASANT 


DONE  INTO  ENGLISH  7ERSE 

BY 
MARTHA  GILBERT  DICKINSON  BIANCHI 

Author  of ' '  Within  the  Hedge, "  "  The  Cathedral. ' '  '  'A\Wodern 
Prometheus,"  "The  Cuckoo's  Nest,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
DUFFIELD  AND  COMPANY 

1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1910,  BY 
DUFFIE1.D  AND  COMPANY 


College 
Library 


3*3*7 


To 
"A  soul  of  passion,  mirth  and  tears" 


i   O,*   T-.^ 

JL  <-•'..,•  a*^j  i  •* 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Song  of  the  Kazak Pushkin  3 

Cradle  Song  of  a  Cossack  Mother       .     .     .     Lermontoff  4 

The  Dagger Lermontoff  6 

Don't  Give  Me  the  Wine!        

(From  the  Georgian  of  Prince  Tschawtschawadze)  7 

The  Delibash Pushkin  8 

To  the  Don Pushkin  9 

The  Caucas Pushkin  10 

The  Cloister  on  Kasbek Pushkin  12 

Goblins  of  the  Steppes Pushkin  13 

Under  a  Portrait  of  Jukowsky Pushkin  16 

The  Vision Pushkin  17 

I  Loved  Thee Pushkin  18 

Serenade        Pushkin  19 

A  Winter  Evening Pushkin  20 

The  Last  Flower Pushkin  22 

Stanzas  from  "Onegin" 

Our  Northern  Winter's  fickle  Summer       .     .     Pushkin  23 

Sometimes  He  read  Aloud  with  Olga    .     .     .     Pushkin  26 

Love  Condescends  to  Every  Altar        .     .     .     Pushkin  27 

How  Sad  to  Me  is  Thine  Appearing     .     .     .     Pushkin  28 

The  Memorial Pushkin  30 

Tamara Lermontoff  32 

The  Gift  of  the  Terek Lermontoff  35 

On  Departure  for  the  Caucas Lermontoff  39 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To  the  Clouds Lermontoff  40 

To  My  Country Lermontoff  41 

To  Kasbek Lermontoff  43 

The  Angel Lermontoff  45 

A  Prayer Lermontoff  46 

The  Sail Lermontoff  47 

I  Am  Not  Byron Lermontoff  48 

Like  An  Evil  Spirit Lermontoff  49 

To  A.  C.  S Lermontoff  50 

A  Song Lermontoff  51 

From  D&non Lermontoff  52 

The  Prayer Lermontoff  53 

The  Palm  Branch  of  Palestine       ....      Lermontoff  54 

The  Dispute Lermontoff  56 

Heaven  and  the  Stars Lermontoff  60 

On  Napoleon's  Death Lermontoff  61 

On  the  Death  of  Pushkin          Lermontoff  62 

Russia,  O  My  Russia,  Hail! Tolstoy  65 

The  Wolves Tolstoy  66 

Autumn         Tolstoy  68 

Burnt  Out  Is  Now  My  Misery Tolstoy  69 

In  Hours  of  Ebbing  Tide Tolstoy  70 

Swans Maikow  71 

To  Sleep Maikow  72 

In  Memory  of  My  Daughter          Maikow  73 

Mother  and  Child Maikow  75 

An  Easter  Greeting Maikow  76 

At  Easter Maikow  77 

O  Mountains  of  My  Native  Country!      .      .      .     Maikow  78 

The  Aeolian  Harp Maikow  80 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Ye  Songs  of  Mine! Nekrassow  81 

In  War Nekrassow  82 

A  Song  of  Siberian  Exiles Nekrassow  83 

Freedom Nekrassow  84 

A  Farewell Nekrassow  85 

The  Love  Letter Nekrassow  86 

What  the  Sleepless  Grandam  Thinks        .      .      Nekrassow  87 

To  Russia Nikitin  89 

The  Song  of  the  Spendthrift Nikitin  94 

The  Spade  is  Deep  Digging  a  Grave  in  the  Mould 

Nikitin  96 

Gossip Nikitin  97 

In  a  Peasant  Hut Nikitin  98 

Winter  Night  in  the  Village Nikitin  99 

The  Birch  Tree Nikitin  102 

North  and  South Nikitin  103 

Hunger Fofanow  105 

Faded  the  Footstep  of  Spring  from  Our  Garden 

Fofanow  107 

The  Beggar         Fofanow  108 

With  Roses (From  the  Georgian  of 

Prince  Tschawtschawadze)  109 

The  Stars (From  the  Caucasian  of 

Prince  Oberlaine)  no 

Whispers  and  the  Timid  Breathing 

("FfiteChenchine")  ill 

The  Tales  of  the  Stars 112 

One  Dearest  Pair  of  Eyes  I  Love   (Gipsy  Song)       .     .      .  113 

A  Gipsy  Song Polonsky  114 

At  Last Plestcheeff  115 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

By  An  Open  Window 

The  Grand  Duke  Constantino  116 
With  the  Greatness  of  God  All  My  Heart  Is  On  Fire! 

Nadson  117 

The  Poet Nadson  118 

To  the  Muse Nadson  119 

A  Fragment Nadson  120 

In  May Nadson  121 

In  Memory  of  N.  M.  D Nadson  122 

At  the  Grave  of  N.  M.  D Nadson  123 

In  Dreams Nadson  124 

The  Old  Grey  House Nadson  125 

Call  Him  Not  Dead, — He  Lives! Nadson  127 

Brief  Biographical  Notes: 

Alexander  Sergjewitsch  Pushkin 129 

Michail  Jurjewitsch  Lermontoff 131 

Count  Alexis  Constantino witsch  Tolstoy 134 

Apollon  Nikola jewitsch  Maikow 135 

Nikolai  Alexajewitsch  Nekrassow 136 

Ivan  Ssawitsch  Nikitin 137 

Constantine  Michailowitsch  Fofanow 138 

Semijon  Jakolo witsch  Nadson 138 


To  THE  READER. 

The  translations  in  this  little  collection  make  no 
pretension  to  being  more  than  an  effort  to  share  the 
delight  found  in  them;  from  which  most  of  the  world 
is  debarred  by  the  difficulty  of  the  language  in  which 
they  are  written.  They  have  been  chosen  at  random, 
each  for  some  intrinsic  charm  or  because  of  its  bear- 
ing upon  some  peculiar  phase  of  the  author.  Very 
few  of  the  lyrics  of  Pushkin  have  been  included,  for 
the  reason  that  the  great  founder  of  Russian  poetry 
has  been  more  widely  translated  than  any  other  Rus- 
sian poet,  and  is  therefore  available  in  several  lan- 
guages. 

Remembering  always  that  Heine  declared  transla- 
tion was  betrayal, — the  rhyme  and  smoothness  have 
in  every  case  been  sacrificed  when  necessary  to  pre- 
serve the  exact  rhythm,  and  as  far  as  possible  the 
vigour  and  colour,  as  well  as  thought  of  the  original; 
a  task  entirely  beyond  me  save  for  the  co-operation  of 
an  accomplished  Russian  linguist  who  has  kindly  as- 
sisted in  the  literal  translation  of  every  poem  here 
presented. 

M.  G.  D.  B. 


RUSSIAN  LYRICS  AND 
COSSACK  SONGS 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  KAZAK 

1Z"AZAK  speeds  ever  toward  the  North, 

Kazak  has  never  heart  for  rest, 
Not  on  the  field,  nor  in  the  wood, 

Nor  when  in  face  of  danger  pressed 
His  steed  the  raging  stream  must  breast! 

Kazak  speeds  ever  toward  the  North, 
With  him  a  mighty  power  brings, 
To  win  the  honour  of  his  land 

Kazak  his  life  unheeding  flings — 
Till  fame  of  him  eternal  sings! 

Kazak  brought  all  Siberia 

At  foot  of  Russia's  throne  to  lie, 

Kazak  left  glory  in  the  Alps, 

His  name  the  Turk  can  terrify, 
His  flag  he  ever  carries  high! 

Kazak  speeds  ever  toward  the  North, 
Kazak  has  never  heart  for  rest, 
Not  on  the  field,  nor  in  the  wood, 

Nor  when  in  face  of  danger  pressed 
His  steed  the  raging  stream  must  breast! 

PUSHKIN. 


*  The  accent  in  singing  falls  sharply  on  the  second 
half—Kazdk. 

3 


CRADLE  SONG  OF  A  COSSACK  MOTHER 

CLUMBER  sweet,  my  fairest  baby, 

Slumber  calmly,  sleep — 
Peaceful  moonbeams  light  thy  chamber, 

In  thy  cradle  creep; 
I  will  tell  to  thee  a  story, 

Pure  as  dewdrop  glow, 
Close  those  two  beloved  eyelids — 

Lullaby,  By-low! 

List!  The  Terek  o'er  its  pebbles 

Blusters  through  the  vale, 
On  its  shores  the  little  Khirgez 

Whets  his  murdrous  blade; 
Yet  thy  father  grey  in  battle — 

Guards  thee,  child  of  woe, 
Safely  rest  thee  hi  thy  cradle, 

Lullaby,  By-low! 

Grievous  times  will  sure  befall  thee, 

Danger,  slaughterous  fire — 
Thou  shalt  on  a  charger  gallop, 

Curbing  at  desire; 
And  a  saddle  girth  all  silken 

Sadly  I  will  sew, 
Slumber  now  my  wide-eyed  darling, 

Lullaby,  By-low! 
4 


CRADLE  SONG  OF  A  COSSACK  MOTHER 

When  I  see  thee,  my  own  Being, 

As  a  Cossack  true, 
Must  I  only  convoy  give  thee — 

"Mother  dear,  adieu!" 
Nightly  in  the  empty  chamber 

Blinding  tears  will  flow, 
Sleep  my  angel,  sweetest  dear  one, 

Lullaby,  By-low! 

Thy  return  I'll  wait  lamenting 

As  the  days  go  by, 
Ardent  for  thee  praying, — fearing 

In  the  cards  to  spy. 
I  shall  fancy  thou  wilt  suffer, 

As  a  stranger  grow — 
Sleep  while  yet  thou  nought  regrettest, 

Lullaby,  By-low! 

I  will  send  a  holy  image 

'Gainst  the  foe  with  thee, 
To  it  kneeling,  dearest  Being, 

Pray  with  piety! 
Think  of  me  in  bloody  battle, 

Dearest  child  of  woe, 
Slumber  soft  within  thy  cradle, 

Lullaby,  By-low! 

LERMONTOFF. 


THE  DAGGER 

T  LOVE  thee  dagger  mine,  thou  sure  defence — 

I  love  the  beauty  of  thy  glitter  cold, 
A  brooding  Georgian  whetted  thee  for  war, 
Forged  for  revenge  thou  wert  by  Khirgez  bold. 

A  lily  hand,  in  parting's  silent  woe, 

Gave  thee  to  me  in  morning's  twilight  shade; 

Instead  of  blood,  I  saw  thee  first  be-dewed 
With  sorrow's  tear-pearls  flowing  o'er  thy  blade. 

Two  dusky  eyes  so  true  and  pure  of  soul, 
Mute  in  the  throe  of  love's  mysterious  pain — 

Like  thine  own  steel  within  the  fire's  glow, 
Flashed  forth  to  me — then  faded  dull  again. 

For  a  soul-pledge  thou  wert  by  love  appointed, 
In  my  life's  night  to  guide  me  to  my  end; 

Stedfast  and  true  my  heart  shall  be  forever, 
Like  thee,  like  thee,  my  steely  hearted  friend! 

LERMONTOFF. 


DON'T   GIVE   ME  THE  WINE! 

T")ON'T  give  me  the  wine! 

I  am  drunk  of  my  love, 
With  the  force  of  my  passion  for  you! 
Don't  give  me  the  wine! 

Or  my  tongue  will  betray 
All  the  love  no  one  dreamed  hitherto; 
For  wine  will  reveal  all  I  hid  in  my  breast, 
All  the  bitter  hot  tears  that  were  mine, 
My  thirst,  without  hope,  for  a  future  so  blest — 
I  am  drunk  of  my  love, — don't  give  me  the  wine! 

You  promise  me  roses  now,  if  I  will  drink 
But  one  drop  of  the  wine; — if  you  please 
Give  only  one  breath  from  the  rose  of  your  lips! 
And  death's  cup  I  will  drain  to  the  lees. 
All  passions  are  raging  at  once  in  my  blood, 
Know  my  frenzy!   Love's  madness  is  mine. 
You  seem  for  my  suffering  only  to  wish — 
I  am  drunk  of  my  love! 

Don't  give  me  the  wine ! 


From  the  Georgian  of  Prince  Tschawtschawadze. 


THE   DELIBASH 

the  hostile  camp  in  skirmish 
Our  men  once  were  changing  shot, 
Pranced  the  Delibash  his  charger 
'Fore  our  ranks  of  Cossacks  hot. 

Trifle  not  with  free-born  Cossacks! 

Nor  too  o'er  foolhardy  be! 
Thy  mad  mood  thou  wilt  atone  for — 

On  his  pike  he'll  skewer  thee! 

'Ware  friend  Cossack!    Or  at  full  bound, 
Off  thy  head,  at  lightning  speed 

With  his  scimitar  he'll  sever 

From  thy  trunk!    He  will  indeed! 

What  confusion!    What  a  roaring! 

Halt!  thou  devil's  pack,  have  care! 
On  the  pike  is  lanced  the  horseman — 

Headless  stands  the  Cossack  there! 

PUSHKIN. 


Delibash  is  the  Turkish  synonym  for  Hotspur. 


TO  THE   DON 

^HROUGH  the  Steppes,  see  there  he  glances! 

Silent  flood  glad  hailed  by  me, — 
Thy  far  distant  sons  do  proffer 
Through  me,  greeting  fond  to  thee! 

Every  stream  knows  thee  as  brother, 

Don,  thou  river  boasted  wide! 
The  Araxes  and  Euphrates 

Send  thee  greeting  as  they  glide. 

Fresh  and  strengthened  for  pursuing, 
Scenting  home  within  thy  gleam — 

Drink  again  the  Don'ish  horses, 
Flowing  boundary,  of  thy  stream! 

Faithful  Don!    There  also  greet  thee 
Thy  true  warriors  bold  and  free — 

Let  thy  vineyard's  foaming  bubbles 
In  the  glass  be  spilled  to  thee! 

PUSHKIN. 


The  valley  of  the  Don  is  the  home  of  the  Russian 
Cossack. 


THE   CAUCAS 

'"pHE  Caucas  lies  before  my  feet!    I  stand  where 
Glaciers  gleam,  beside  a  precipice  rock-ribbed; 
An  eagle  that  has  soared  from  off  some  distant  cliff, 
Lawless  as  I,  sweeps  through  the  radiant  air! 
Here  I  see  streams  at  their  sources  up-welling, 
The  grim  avalanches  unrolling  and  swelling! 

The  soft  cloudy  convoys  are  stretched  forth  below, 
Tattered  by  thronging  mad  torrents  descending; 
Beneath  them  the  naked  rocks  downward  are  bending, 
Still  deeper,  the  wild  shrubs  and  sparse  herbage  grow; 
But  yonder  the  forests  stand  verdant  in  flora 
And  birds  are  a'twitter  in  choiring  chorus. 

Yonder,  cliff-nested  are  dwellings  of  mortals, 

There    pasture    the    lambs    in    sweet    blossoming 

meadows — 
There    couch    the    herds    in    the    cool    deepening 

shadows — 

There  roar  the  Aragua's  blue  sparkling  waters, 
And  lurketh  the  bandit  safe  hid  in  lone  caverns, 
Where  Terek,  wild  sporting,  is  cutting  the  azure! 

It  leaps  and  it  howls  like  some  ravening  beast 
At  first  sight  of  feeding,  through  grating  of  iron — 

10 


THE  CAUCAS 

It  roars  on  the  shore  with  a  furious  purring, 
It  licks  on  the  pebbles  with  eagerest  greed. 
Vain  struggle  and  rancor  and  hatred,  alas! 
'Tis  enchained  and  subdued  by  the  unheeding  mass. 

PUSHKIN. 


ii 


THE  CLOISTER  ON  KASBEK 

T7"ASBEK,  thy  regal  canopy 

High  o'er  all  peaks  revealed  I  see 
By  an  eternal  icy  glare. 
Hanging  in  cloudless  glory  ever — 
Like  to  an  ark  thy  cloister  there; 
This  world  disturbing  thy  peace  never, 
Blest  realm  of  joy  remote  in  air! 
Ah  could  I  at  thy  mercy's  threshold, 
From  durance  cursed  set  myself  free, 
And  in  thine  own  etherial  cloisters 
Near  thy  Creator  ever  be! 

PUSHKIN. 


12 


GOBLINS  OF  THE  STEPPES 

CTORMY  clouds  delirious  straying, 

Showers  of  whirling  snowflakes  white, 
And  the  pallid  moonbeams  waning — 
Sad  the  heavens,  sad  the  night! 
Further  speeds  the  sledge,  and  further, 
Loud  the  sleighbell's  melody, 
Grewsome,  frightful  'tis  becoming, 
'Mid  these  snow  fields  now  to  be! 

Hasten!  "That  is  useless,  Master, 
Heavier  for  my  team  their  load, 
And  my  eyes  with  snow  o'er  plastered 
Can  no  longer  see  the  road! 
Lost  all  trace  of  our  direction, 
Sir,  what  now?    The  goblins  draw 
Us  already  round  in  circles, 
Pull  the  sledge  with  evil  claw! 

See!  One  hops  with  frantic  gesture, 
In  my  face  to  grin  and  hiss, 
See!    It  goads  the  frenzied  horses 
Onward  to  the  black  abyss! 
In  the  darkness,  like  a  paling 
One  stands  forth, — and  now  I  see 
Him  like  walking-fire  sparkling — 
Then  the  blackness, — woe  is  me!" 
13 


GOBLINS  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Stormy  clouds  delirious  straying, 
Showers  of  snowflakes  whirling  white, 
And  the  pallid  moonbeams  waning — 
Sad  the  heavens,  sad  the  night! 
Sudden  halt  the  weary  horses, 
Silent  too  the  sleighbells  whirr — 
Look!  What  crouches  on  the  ground  there? 
"Wolf,— or  shrub,— I  know  not,  Sir." 

How  the  wind's  brood  rage  and  whimper! 

Scenting,  blow  the  triple  team; 

See!    One  hops  here!    Forward  Driver! 

How  his  eyes  with  evil  gleam! 

Scarce  controllable  the  horses, 

How  the  harness  bells  resound! 

Look!    With  what  a  sneering  grimace 

Now  the  spirit  band  surround! 

In  an  endless  long  procession, 
Formless,  countless  of  their  kind 
Circle  us  in  flying  coveys 
Like  the  leaves  in  Autumn  wind. 
Now  in  ghastly  silence  deathly, 
Now  with  shrilling  elfin  cry — 
Is  it  some  mad  dance  of  bridal, 
Or  a  death  march  passing  by? 

Stormy  clouds  delirious  straying 
Showers  of  snowflakes  whirling  white, 
And  the  pallid  moonbeams  waning — 
Sad  the  heavens,  sad  the  night! 


GOBLINS  OF  THE  STEPPES 

Cloudward  course  the  evil  spirits 
In  unceasing  phantom  bands, 
And  their  moaning  and  bewailing 
Grip  my  heart  with  icy  hands! 

PUSHKIN. 


UNDER  A  PORTRAIT  OF  JUKOWSKY 

/1PHE  charm  and  sweetness  of  his  magic  verse 
Will  mock  the  envious  years  for  centuries! 
Since  youth,  on  hearing  them,  for  glory  burns, 

The  wordless  sorrow  comfort  in  them  sees, 
And  careless  joy  to  wistful  musing  turns. 

PUSHKIN. 


Jukowsky  was  a  Russian  poet. 


16 


THE  VISION  v 

T  REMEMBER  a  marvellous  instant, 
Unto  me  bending  down  from  above, 
Thy  radiant  vision  appearing 
As  an  angel  of  beauty  and  love. 
'Mid  the  torments  of  desperate  sadness, 
In  the  torture  of  bondage  and  sighs, 
To  me  rang  thy  voice  so  beloved — 
And  I  dreamed  thy  miraculous  eyes. 
But  the  years  rolled  along — and  life's  tempests 
My  illusions,  my  youth  overcame, 
I  forgot  that  sweet  voice  full  of  music — 
And  thy  glance  like  a  heavenly  flame. 
In  the  covert  and  grief  of  my  exile, 
The  days  stretched  unchanged  in  their  flight, 
Bereft  inspiration  or  power, 
Bereft  both  of  love  and  of  light. 
To  my  soul  now  approaches  awakening, 
To  me  thou  art  come  from  above, 
As  a  radiant  and  wonderful  vision — 
As  an  angel  of  beauty  and  love. 
As  before  my  heart  throbs  with  emotion, 
Life  looks  to  me  worthy  and  bright, 
And  I  feel  inspiration  and  power — 
And  again  love  and  tears  and  the  light! 

PUSHKIN. 

17 


T  LOVED  thee;   and  perchance  until  this  moment 

Within  my  breast  is  smouldering  still  the  fire! 
Yet  I  would  spare  thy  pain  the  least  renewal, 
Nothing  shall  rouse  again  the  old  desire! 

I  loved  thee  with  a  silent  desperation — 
Now  timid,  now  with  jealousy  brought  low, 
I  loved  devoutly, — with  such  deep  devotion — 
Ah  may  God  grant  another  love  thee  so! 

PUSHKIN. 


18 


A  SERENADE 

J  WATCH  Inesilla 

Thy  window  beneath, 
Deep  slumbers  the  villa 
In  night's  dusky  sheath. 

Enamoured  I  linger, 

Close  mantled,  for  thee — 

With  sword  and  with  guitar, 
O  look  once  on  me! 

Art  sleeping?    Wilt  wake  thee 

Guitar  tones  so  light? 
The  argus-eyed  greybeard 

My  swift  sword  shall  smite. 

The  ladder  of  ropes 
Throw  me  fearlessly  now! 

Dost  falter?    Hast  thou,  Sweet, 
Been  false  to  thy  vow? 

I  watch  Inesilla 

Thy  window  beneath, 
Deep  slumbers  the  villa 
In  night's  dusky  sheath! 

PUSHKIN. 
19 


A  WINTER  EVENING 

CABLE  clouds  by  tempest  driven, 
Snowflakes  whirling  in  the  gales, 
Hark — it  sounds  like  grim  wolves  howling, 
Hark — now  like  a  child  it  wails! 
Creeping  through  the  rustling  straw  thatch. 
Rattling  on  the  mortared  walls, 
Like  some  weary  wanderer  knocking — 
On  the  lowly  pane  it  falls. 

Fearsome  darkness  fills  the  kitchen, 
Drear  and  lonely  our  retreat, 
Speak  a  word  and  break  the  silence, 
Dearest  little  Mother,  sweet! 
Has  the  moaning  of  the  tempest 
Closed  thine  eyelids  wearily? 
Has  the  spinning  wheel's  soft  whirring 
Hummed  a  cradle  song  to  thee? 

Sweetheart  of  my  youthful  Springtime, 
Thou  true-souled  companion  dear — 
Let  us  drink!    Away  with  sadness! 
Wine  will  fill  our  hearts  with  cheer. 
Sing  the  song  how  free  and  careless 
Birds  live  in  a  distant  land — 
Sing  the  song  of  maids  at  morning 
Meeting  by  the  brook's  clear  strand! 
20 


A  WINTER  EVENING 

Sable  clouds  by  tempest  driven, 
Snowflakes  whirling  in  the  gales, 
Hark — it  sounds  like  grim  wolves  howling, 
Hark — now  like  a  child  it  wails! 
Sweetheart  of  my  youthful  Springtime, 
Thou  true-souled  companion  dear, 
Let  us  drink!    Away  with  sadness! 
Wine  will  fill  our  hearts  with  cheer! 

PUSHKIN. 


21 


THE   LAST  FLOWER 

DICH  the  first  flower's  graces  be, 
But  dearer  far  the  last  to  me; 
My  spirit  feels  renewal  sweet, 
Of  all  my  dreams  hope  or  desire — 
The  hours  of  parting  oft  inspire 
More  than  the  moments  when  we  meet! 

PUSHKIN. 


22 


THE  COMING  OF  THE   WINTER 

Stanzas  from  "One gin" 

/~\UR  Northern  Winter's  fickle  Summer, 

Than  Southern  Winter  scarce  more  bland- 
Is  undeniably  withdrawing 
On  fleeting  footsteps  from  the  land. 
Soon  will  the  Autumn  dim  the  heavens, 
The  light  of  sunbeams  rarer  grown — 
Already  every  day  is  shorter, 
While  with  a  smitten  hollow  tone 
The  forest  drops  its  shadow  leafage; 
Upon  the  fields  the  mists  lie  white, 
In  lusty  caravans  the  wild  geese 
Now  to  the  milder  South  take  flight; 
Seasons  of  tedium  draw  near, 
Before  the  door  November  drear! 

From  shivering  mist  ascends  the  morning, 
The  bustle  of  the  fields  declines, 
The  wolf  walks  now  upon  the  highway, 
In  wolfish  hunger  howls  and  whines; 
The  traveller's  pony  scents  him,  snorting — 
The  heedful  wanderer  breathless  takes 
His  way  in  haste  beyond  the  mountains! 
And  though  no  longer  when  day  breaks 
Forth  from  their  stalls  the  herd  begins 
23 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  WINTER 

To  drive  the  kine, — his  noon-day  horn  recalls. 
The  peasant  maiden  sings  and  spins, 
Before  her  crackling,  flaming  bright 
The  pine  chips, — friend  of  Winter  night. 

And  see!    The  hoar  frost  colder  sparkles 
And  spreads  its  silver  o'er  the  fields, 
Alas!  the  golden  days  are  vanished! 
Reluctant  Nature  mournful  yields. 
The  stream  with  ice  all  frozen  over 
Gleams  as  some  fashionable  parquet, 
And  thronging  hordes  of  boyish  skaters 
Sweep  forward  on  its  crystal  way. 
On  her  red  claws  despondent  swimming, 
The  plump  goose  parts  the  water  cold, 
Then  on  the  ice  with  caution  stalking 
She  slips  and  tumbles, — ah  behold! 
Now  the  first  snowflake  idling  down 
Stars  the  depressing  landscape  brown. 

At  such  a  season  in  the  country, 
What  can  a  man's  amusements  be? 
Walk?    And  but  more  of  empty  highway 
And  of  deserted  village  see? 
Or  let  him  -through  the  far  Steppes  gallop, 
His  horse  can  scarcely  stand  at  all — 
His  stamping  hoofs  in  vain  seek  foothold, 
The  rider  dreading  lest  he  fall! 
So  then  remain  within  thy  paling, 
Read  thou  in  Pradt  or  Walter  Scott, 
24 


THE  COMING  OF  THE  WINTER 

Compare  thy  varying  editions, 
Drink,  and  thy  scoffing  mood  spare  not! 
As  the  long  evenings  drag  away 
So  doth  the  Winter  too  delay. 

PUSHKIN. 


[Pradt  was  a  French  political  writer,  Minister  to 
the  Grand  Duchy  of  Warsaw  in  1812.  Nine  editions 
of  his  History  of  the  Embassy  at  Warsaw  were  de- 
manded.] 


FROM    "ONEGIN" 

COMETIMES  he  read  aloud  with  Olga 

A  latter  day  romance  discreet, 
Whose  author  truly  painted  nature, 
With  cunning  plot,  insight  complete; 
Oft  he  passed  over  a  few  pages, 
Too  bald  or  tasteless  in  their  art — 
And  coloring,  began  on  further, 
Not  to  disturb  the  maiden  heart. 
Again,  they  sat  for  hours  together, 
With  but  a  chess  board  to  divide; 
She  with  her  arms  propped  on  the  table, 
Deep  pondering,  puzzled  to  decide — 
Till  Lenski  from  his  inward  storm 
Captured  her  castle  with  his  pawn! 

PUSHKIN. 


26 


FROM   "ONEGIN" 

T  OVE  condescends  to  every  altar, 

Ah  when  in  hearts  of  youth  it  springs, 
Its  coming  brings  such  glad  refreshment 
As  May  rain  o'er  the  pasture  flings! 
Lifted  from  passion's  melancholy 
The  life  breaks  forth  in  fairer  flower, 
The  soul  receives  a  new  enrichment — 
Fruition  sweet  and  full  of  power. 
But  when  on  later  altars  arid 
It  downward  sweeps,  about  us  flows — 
Love  leaves  behind  such  deathly  traces 
As  Autumn  tempests  where  it  blows 
To  strip  the  woods  with  ruthless  hand, 
And  turn  to  soggy  waste  the  land! 

PUSHKIN. 


27 


FROM   "ONEGIN" 

I.IOW  sad  to  me  is  thine  appearing, 

O  Springtime,  hour  of  love's  unrest! 
Within  the  soul  what  nameless  languors! 
What  passions  hid  within  the  breast! 
With  what  a  heavy,  heavy  spirit 
From  the  earth's  rustic  lap  I  feel 
Again  the  joy  of  Springtide  odors — 
That  once  could  make  my  spirit  reel! 
No  more  for  me  such  pleasures  thrilling, 
All  that  rejoices,  that  has  life, 
All  that  exults, — brings  but  despondence 
To  one  past  passion  as  past  strife, 
All  is  but  prose  to  such  as  he, 
Wearied  unto  satiety. 

Perchance  we  fain  would  pass  unnoticed 
That  which  in  Autumn  drooped  and  pined, 
Now  radiant  in  verdure  springing, 
Since  it  must  of  our  loss  remind; 
As  with  a  tortured  soul  we  realize 
In  Nature's  glad  awakening, 
That  we  shall  never  find  renewal, 
Who  evermore  are  withering. 
Perchance  there  haunts  us  in  remembrance, 
Our  own  most  dear  and  lyric  dream, 
28 


FROM  "ONEGIN" 

Another  long  forgotten  Springtime — 
And  trembling  neath  this  pang  supreme, 
The  heart  faints  for  a  distant  country 
And  for  a  night  beside  the  sea! 

PUSHKIN. 


29 


THE    MEMORIAL 

"DEYOND  compare  the  monument  I  have  erected, 
And  to  this  spirit  column  well-worn  the  people's 

path, — 

Its  head  defiant  will  out-soar  that  famous  pillar 
The  Emperor  Alexander  hath! 

I  shall  not  vanish  wholly, — No!  but  young  forever- 
My  spirit  will  live  on,  within  my  lyre  will  ring, 
And  men  within  this  world  shall  hold  me  in  remem- 
brance 
While  yet  one  Singer  lives  to  sing. 

My  glory  shall  in  future  fly  through  distant  Russia, 
Each  race  in  its  own  tongue  shall  name  me  far  and 

wide, 

The  Slav,  the  Finn,  the  Kalmyk,  all  shall  know  me — 
The  Tungoose  in  his  reindeer  hide. 

Among  my  people  I  shall  be  long  loved  and  cherished, 
Because  their  noblest  instincts  I  have  e'er  inflamed, 
In  evil  hours  I  lit  their  hearts  with  fires  of  freedom, 
And  never  for  their  pleasures  blamed. 

O  Muse,  pursue  the  calling  of  thy  Gods  forever! 
Strive  not  for  the  garland,  nor  look  upon  the  pain — 

30 


THE  MEMORIAL 

Unmoved  support  the  voice  of  scorn  or  of  laudation, 
And  argument  with  Fools  disdain! 

PUSHKIN. 


The  Alexander  column,  standing  before  the  Win- 
ter Palace  at  St.  Petersburg,  is  a  monolith  eighty  feet 
high;  with  the  pedestal  measuring  one  hundred  and 
fifty  feet. 


TAMARA 

waves  of  the  Terek  are  waltzing 
In  Dariel's  wickedest  pass, 
There  rises  from  bleakest  of  storm  crags 
An  ancient  grey  towering  mass. 

In  this  tower  by  mad  winds  assaulted, 

Sat  ever  Tamara,  the  Queen — 
A  heavenly  angel  of  beauty, 

With  a  spirit  of  hell's  own  demesne. 

Through  the  mist  of  the  night  her  gold  fires 
Gleamed  down  through  the  valley  below, 

A  welcome  they  threw  to  the  pilgrim, 
In  their  streaming  and  beckoning  glow. 

How  clear  rang  the  voice  of  Tamara! 

How  amorous  did  it  invite! 
The  heart  of  the  stranger  enticing, 

Seducing  with  magic  delight! 

The  warrior  was  snared  by  her  singing, 
Nor  noble,  nor  herd  could  withstand — 

Then  noiseless  her  portal  was  opened 
By  eunuchs  of  shadowy  hand. 
32 


TAMARA 

With  pearls  rare  adorned  and  strange  jewels, 

Reposed  on  a  billowy  nest, 
A  prey  to  voluptuous  longing, 

Tamara  awaited  her  guest. 

With  passioned  and  thrilling  embracement, 
With  straining  of  breast  unto  breast, 

With  sighing  and  trembling  and  transport — 
In  lust's  unrestrained,  giddy  zest — 

So  revelled  'mid  desolate  ruins, 
Of  Lovers, — past  counting  at  least! 

In  their  bridal  night's  wild  distraction, 
And  in  truth  at  their  own  death  feast. 

For  when  from  the  peaks  of  the  mountains 
The  sun  tore  the  night's  veiling  soft, 

There  reigned  anew  only  the  silence 
On  turret  and  casement  aloft. 

And  only  the  Terek  bewailing 
With  fury  broke  in  on  the  hush, 

As  dashing  her  billows  on  billows 
Her  writhing  floods  onward  did  rush. 

A  youth's  form  her  currents  are  bearing, 
Ah  vainly  they  murmur  and  swell! 

A  woman,  a  pale  and  a  fair  one — 

Cries  down  from  her  tower  "Farewell!" 
33 


TAMARA 

Her  voice  has  the  sound  of  faint  weeping, 
So  amorous,  tender  and  sweet — 

As  if  she  in  love's  holy  rapture 
Did  promise  of  meeting  repeat! 

LERMONTOFF. 


[Tamara  is  the  Russian  Lorelei.  TJte  ruins  of  her 
castle  are  still  shown  in  the  pass  of  Darjal  on  the  famous 
Georgian  Road.] 


34 


THE   GIFT  OF  THE  TEREK 

HPHROUGH  the  rocks  in  wildest  courses 

Seethes  the  Terek  grim  of  mood, 
Tempest  howling  its  bewailing, 
Pearled  with  foam  its  tearful  flood. 

At  the  mountain's  feet  soft  streaming, 
Gentler  grown  its  murmurs  be, 

And  with  greeting  full  of  fawning 
Speaks  to  the  Caspian  Sea: 

"Hospitable  part  thy  billows, 
Give  me  room,  oh  Ocean  grave! 

From  a  distance  drawing  thither — 
Scarce  my  weary  currents  wave. 

Born  upon  the  edge  of  Kasbek, 
By  the  breast  of  clouds  renewed, 

Hatred  have  I  sworn  to  mankind, 
Who  with  us,  the  free,  make  feud. 

See,  by  rage  of  my  own  fury 
Lies  despoiled  my  Darjal  home, 

And  as  playthings  for  thy  children, 
Pebbles  bearing  now  I  come." 
35 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  TEREK 

Yet  upon  her  strands  a'dreaming, 
Mute  the  grey  Sea  did  remain, 

And  the  Terek,  silver  foaming, 
Spoke  caressingly  again. 

"Grey  Sea  I  would  serve  thee  only, 
Have  a  present  borne  to-day — 

See,  'tis  a  young  Carabineer 
Who  has  fallen  in  the  fray. 

How  his  coat  of  mail  is  gleaming 

Silver  on  the  billows'  span! 
Golden  on  his  trappings  shining 

Blessing  of  the  Alcoran! 

Menacing  the  one  who  slew  him 
Scowls  the  brow's  relentless  feud, 

By  his  noble  life  blood  crimsoned 
O'er  his  lips  his  hair  is  glued. 

Through  the  half-closed  eyelids  glancim 
Still  the  lust  of  quarrel  mocks, 

From  his  head  deep  underneath  him 
Flow  the  matted  raven  locks." 

Motionless  upon  her  beaches 
Did  the  grey  Sea  still  remain, 

And  the  Terek  foaming  yellow 
In  displeasure  spoke  again. 
36 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  TEREK 

"So  then,  take  him  as  a  present, 

As  I  nothing  fairer  know 
On  this  round  earth, — for  thee  only 

This  rare  prize  I've  guarded  so! 

'Tis  a  mountain  Cossack's  body 
Waited  'mid  my  billows'  dance, 

See  his  hair, — no  silk  is  softer — 
See  his  shoulder's  gold  expanse! 

See  how  o'er  his  red  lips  speechless 
Now  the  seated  eyes  find  rest; 

Trickling  yet  the  purple  life  blood 
From  the  small  wound  on  his  breast. 

For  a  young  and  holy  maiden, 
Weeps  lamenting,  every  heart! 

One  sole  Cossack  in  the  village, 
In  this  mourning  takes  no  part. 

From  the  confines  of  his  country 
Rode  he  forth  with  boding  grey, 

'Neath  the  dagger  of  the  Tscherkcs 
He  has  breathed  his  soul  away." 

And  the  Terek  paused;  behold  now 
In  the  gleaming  foam  flood  drowned, 

Silvered  in  the  spraying  billows 

Dips  a  head  with  rushes  crowned. 
4  37 


THE  GIFT  OF  THE  TEREK 

And  the  hoary  one's  lips  whisper 
Haughty  words  of  youthful  fire, 

And  the  eyes  lit  with  love  lustre 
Flame  with  passionate  desire. 

Foaming,  rushing  on  swift  longing, 
Seethed  he  up  in  youthful  zest — 

And  the  Terek  flood  was  wedded 
With  him  in  embraces  blest. 

LERMONTOFF. 


ON  DEPARTURE  FOR  THE  CAUCAS 

IpAREWELL  my  hateful  Russian  country! 

People  of  lord  and  serf  you  are — 
Farewell,  salute,  bent  knee  and  hand-kiss, 
Three-masters,  uniform  and  star! 

Soon  will  the  Caucas  now  conceal  me, 

There  I  shall  not  discovered  be 
By  eyes  and  ears  of  paid,  false  sergeants — 

Who  all  do  hear  and  all  do  see! 

LERMONTOFF. 


39 


TO  THE  CLOUDS 

/CLOUDS — ye  eternal  wanderers  in  hunting  grounds 

of  air, 
High  o'er  the  verdant  Steppes,  wide  through  the  blue 

of  heaven — 

Coursing  fraternal, — say,  must  ye  exiled  as  I 
From  the  beloved  North  to  the  far  South  be  driven? 

O  tell  me,  were  ye  outlawed  thus  by  Fate's  behest? 
Drives  ye  forth  open  hate,  or  secret  grudge  flee  ye? 
Follows  ye  unappeased  an  evil-doer's  curse? 
Are  ye  pursued  by  poisonous  words  of  calumny? 

Ah  no!  Only  from  the  unfruitful  earth  ye  fly; 
Free  are  your  sufferings,  your  blessedness  is  free, 
Ye  know  not  wretchedness  that  holds  us  here  in 

chains, 
Know  not  the  joy  of  home  or  exile's  misery! 

LERMONTOFF. 


40 


TO  MY  COUNTRY 

VI7ITH    love   of   my  own   race  I  cling  unto  my 

country, 

Whatever  dubious  reason  may  protesting  cry; 
The  shame  alone  of  all  her  blood  bought  glory, 
Her  haughty  self-assurance,  conscious  pride, 
And  the  ancestral  faith's  traditions  dark, 
With  woe  have  penetrated  all  my  heart. 

And  yet  I  love  it!    Why,  I  cannot  say; 

The  endless  snowy  Steppes  so  silent  brooding, 

In  the  pine  forests  Autumn  winds  pursuing — 

The  flood's  high  water  on  all  sides  in  May. 

By  peasant  cart  I  fain  would  haste  in  nightly  darkness, 

Through  the  lone  wilderness  and  village  desolate, 

How  hospitable  shines  the  sole  beam  sparkling 

To  me  from  each  poor  hut!     Filled  with  content  so 

great, 

The  smell  of  stubble  burnt,  delights.    Piled  high 
The  wagons  silent  standing  take  their  nightly  rest, 
On  distant  hills  the  silver  birches  I  descry, 
Framed  gold  by  fertile  fields  the  sacred  picture  blest. 
Then  with  a  joy  unshared  save  by  the  vagrant, 
I  see  the  threshing  floor  well  filled  and  fragrant, 
The  sloping  straw-thatched  cottage  roofs  again, 
The  window  panels  carved,  of  varied  stain. 


TO  MY  COUNTRY 

Nightly  could  I,  till  morning  grey  arrested, 
Gaze  on  the  dancing,  stamping,  whistling  crowd, 
Watching  the  villager, — young,  happy,  festive — 
And  hearing  drunken  peasants  glad  carouse! 

LERMONTOFF. 


42 


TO  KASBEK 

winged  footsteps  now  I  hasten 
Unto  the  far  cold  North  away, 
Kasbek, — thou  watchman  of  the  East, 
To  thee,  my  farewell  greetings  say! 

Since  all  eternity,  a  turban 
Snow  white,  thy  glorious  brow  has  veiled, 
The  peace  sublime  about  thy  glacier 
The  strife  of  man  has  ne'er  assailed. 

Accept  my  humble  supplication, 
Hear  thy  submissive  faithful  son, 
To  starry  heights  lift  his  entreaty 
To  Allah's  everlasting  throne. 

I  do  implore — spice  breathing  coolness 
Through  sultry  sun-glow  in  the  vale, 
A  stone  for  rest  unto  the  pilgrim 
In  whirling  dust  of  desert  gale. 

Turn,  I  implore,  the  storm's  hot  hatred, 
The  deadly  thunderous  lightning's  course — 
In  Dariel's  wild  pass  protect  me 
And  my  distracted,  trembling  horse. 
43 


TO  KASBEK 

Yet  one  prayer  more  my  heart  audacious, 
Weeping,  lifts  up  in  bodeful  stress, 
What  if  my  native  land  forget  me 
In  my  sad  exile's  loneliness? 

Will,  greeting  me  by  name  familiar, 
My  friend  then  open  wide  his  arms? 
Will  e'en  my  brothers  recognise  me, 
So  changed  by  many  griefs  and  harms? 

Perchance  my  foot  will  fall  profaning 
Dust  of  those  loved  in  youth's  far  day, 
The  pure  and  noble,  deeply  trusted — 
Withered  as  Autumn  leaves  in  May. 

O  Kasbek,  then  with  earth  o'erwhelm  me! 
Snow  o'er  thy  weary  wanderer  back, 
And  blow  away  my  dust  and  scatter 
Along  thy  rock-ridged  clefts  lone  track! 

LERMONTOFF. 


44 


THE  ANGEL 

COFT  singing  at  midnight  through  heaven's  high 
blue 

A  beautiful  angel  once  flew; 
The  moon  and  the  stars  and  the  clouds  in  a  throng 

Attended  his  wonderful  song! 

He  sang  of  the  bliss  of  those  gardens  and  coasts 
Where  live  and  exult  the  pure  ghosts, 

Their  songs  glad  extolling  Almighty's  grace 
Repeated  from  race  unto  race. 

In  his  arms  he  was  bearing  a  young  soul  below, 

To  leave  in  this  world  of  our  woe, 
The  strains  of  his  singing  within  her  soul  beat — 

A  wordless  song,  living  and  sweet! 

Long  languished  her  soul  in  its  earthly  abode, 

With  a  heavenly  longing  o'erflowed, 
For  ne'er  were  those  holy,  pure  strains  of  her  birth, 

Effaced  by  the  songs  of  the  earth. 

LERMONTOFF. 


45 


A  PRAYER 

pAITHFUL  before  thee,  Mother  of  God,  now 
kneeling, 

Image  miraculous  and  merciful — of  thee 

Not  for  my  soul's  health  nor  battles  waged,  beseech- 
ing, 

Nor  yet  with  thanks  or  penitence  o'erwhelming  me ! 

Not  for  myself, — my  heart  with  guilt  o'erflowing — 
Who  in  my  home  land  e'er  a  stranger  has  remained, 
No,  a  sinless  child  upon  thy  mercy  throwing, 
That  thou  protect  her  innocence  unstained! 

Worthy  the  highest  bliss,  with  happiness  O  bless  her! 
Grant  her  a  friend  to  stand  unchanging  at  her  side, 
A  youth  of  sunshine  and  an  old  age  tranquil, 
A  spirit  where  together  peace  and  hope  abide. 

Then,  when  strikes  the  hour  her  way  from  earth  for 
wending, 

Let  her  heart  break  at  dawning  or  at  dead  of  night — 

From  out  thy  highest  heaven,  thy  fairest  angel  send- 
ing 

The  fairest  of  all  souls  sustain  in  heavenward  flight! 

LERMONTOFF. 


THE  SAIL 

A    SINGLE  sail  is  bleaching  brightly 
Upon  the  waves  caressing  bland, 
What  seeks  it  in  a  stranger  country? 

Why  did  it  leave  its  native  strand? 
When  winds  pipe  high,  load  roar  the  billows 

And  with  a  crashing  bends  the  mast, 
It  does  not  shun  its  luckless  fortune, 

Nor  haste  to  port  before  the  blast. 
To-day  the  sea  is  clear  as  azure, 

The  sun  shines  gaily,  faint  the  wind — 
But  it  revolting,  looks  for  tempest, 

And  dreams  in  storms  its  peace  to  find! 

LERMONTOFF. 


Lermontojf,  being  reproached  by  the  critics  of  his 
time  for  imitation  of  Byron  in  this  poem,  defended 
himself  by  the  following,  "I  am  not  Byron!'' 


47 


I  AM  NOT  BYRON 

T  AM  not  Byron — yet  I  am 

One  fore-elected,  yet  one  more 
Unknown,  world-hunted  wanderer, 
A  Russian  in  my  mood  and  mind. 

Scant  from  my  seed  the  corn  was  ripe, 
My  mouth  spoke  young,  was  early  hushed; 
In  depths  of  my  own  soul,  the  wreck 
Of  hope  lies  as  in  deep-sea  sunk. 

Who  shall  the  counsels  of  the  sea, 
Its  awe  sublime  unloose?    Who  shall 
Read  clear  my  spirit  and  my  soul? 
Unless  it  be  a  Poet — no  man! 

LERMONTOFF. 


LIKE  AN  EVIL  SPIRIT 

J  IKE  an  evil  spirit  hast  thou 

Shocked  my  heart  from  out  its  rest, 
If  thou'lt  take  it  quite  away  now — 
Thou  wilt  win  my  healing  blest! 

My  heart  thy  temple  evermore! 

Thy  face, — the  altar's  Godhead  sign! 
Not  heaven's  grace, — thy  smiles,  restore, 

Grant  absolution,  joy  divine! 

LERMONTOFF. 


49 


TO  A.  C.  S. 

A  FAR — I  fain  so  much  would  tell  thee! 
List  to  thee  o'er  and  o'er  when  near; 
Yet  passioned  glances  thou  dost  silence — 
My  words  bind  to  my  lips  in  fear. 
How,  by  mere  homely  speaking,  can  I 
E'en  hope  to  captivate  thine  ears? 
I  swear  it  would  be  food  for  laughter — 
If  it  were  not  more  fit  for  tears! 

LERMONTOFF. 


A  SONG 

leaf  trembling  on  the  branches 
Before  the  blast, 
Poor  heart  quaking  in  the  bosom 

For  woe  thou  hast; 
Ah  what  matter  if  the  wind  then, 

Withered  leaf  from  blooming  linden 
Should  scatter  wide? 
Would  for  this  the  twig  or  branches 

Have  wailing  sighed? 
And  should  the  lad  his  fate  upbraid, 

Although  he  ignominious  fade — 
And  in  an  alien  country  die? 
Will  for  him  the  beauteous  maid 
Complaining  cry? 

LERMONTOFP. 


FROM   "DEMON" 

CAILLESS  and  without  a  rudder, 

On  the  ocean  of  the  air — 
Float  the  choirs  of  stars  harmonious, 

'Mid  the  mists  eternal  there; 
Fleecy  flocks  of  clouds  elusive 

Drift  across  immensity, 
Leaving  ne'er  a  track  behind  them, 

Following  their  destiny. 
Hour  of  parting,  hour  of  meeting 

They  know  not, — nor  grief,  nor  rest — 
Theirs  no  longing  for  the  future, 

Theirs  no  sorrow  for  the  past. 
By  thy  day  of  anguish  broken, 

Think  of  them  and  calm  thy  woe — 
Be  indifferent  as  they  are 

To  the  pangs  of  earth  below! 

LERMONTOFF. 


THE   PRAYER 

faints  the  heart  for  sorrow, 
In  life's  hard,  darkened  hour, 
My  spirit  breathes  a  wondrous  prayer 
Full  of  love's  inward  power. 

There  is  a  might  inspiring 

Each  consecrated  word, 
That  speaks  the  inconceivable 

And  holy  will  of  God. 

The  heavy  load  slips  from  my  heart — 

Oppressing  doubt  takes  flight, 
The  soul  believes,  the  tears  break  forth — 

And  all  is  light,  so  light! 

LERMONTOFF. 


53 


THE  PALM  BRANCH  OF  PALESTINE 

DALM  branch  of  Palestine,  oh  tell  me, 

In  that  far  distant  home-land  fair, 
Wast  rooted  in  the  mountain  gravel 
Or  sprung  from  some  vale  garden  rare? 

Once  o'er  the  Jordan's  silver  billows 
Fond  kissed  with  thee  the  Eastern  sun? 

Have  the  grim  gales  'neath  starry  heavens 
Swept  over  thee  from  Lebanon? 

And  was  a  trembling  prayer  soft  whispered, 
A  father's  song  sung  over  thee — 

When  from  the  parent  stem  dis-severed 
By  some  poor  aborigine? 

And  is  the  palm  tree  ever  standing, 
Amid  the  fierce  glare  beating  down, 

The  pilgrim  in  the  desert  luring 
To  shelter  'neath  her  shadow  crown? 

Perhaps  the  leaves  ancestral  shiver 

In  unappeased  parting  pain, 
The  branch  conceals  a  homesick  longing 

For  desert  wilderness  again? 
54 


THE  PALM  BRANCH  OF  PALESTINE 

Was  it  a  pilgrim  who  first  brought  thee 
To  the  cold  North,  with  pious  hand? 

Who  mused  upon  his  home  in  sadness, 
And  dost  thou  bear  his  tear's  hot  brand? 


Was  it  Jehovah's  favored  warrior, 

His  gleaming  head  transfigured  bright, 

For  God  and  man  true-sworn,  devoted 
Unto  the  victory  of  light? 

Before  the  wonder-working  image 
Thou  stand'st  as  heaven's  defence  divine, 

O  branch  from  out  that  holy  country, 
The  sanctuary's  shield  and  sign! 

It  darkens,  golden  lamp  light  splendors 
Enveil  the  cross,  the  sacred  shrine — 

The  peace  of  God  is  wafted  o'er  us 
From  thee,  oh  branch  of  Palestine! 

LERMONTOFF. 


55 


THE   DISPUTE 

'mid  group  of  native  mountains 
Hot  dispute  arose, 
Elbrus,  angry,  did  with  Kasbek 

Argument  propose. 
"Now  beware!"  the  hoary  Elbrus, 

Warning  did  exclaim — 
"To  enslave  thee  and  enthrall  thee 

Is  man's  evil  aim! 
Smoking  huts  he  will  be  building 

On  thy  mountain  side, 
Loudly  through  thy  clefts  resounding 

Ring  his  hatchet  wide! 
The  swift  swinging  iron  shovel 

Breast  of  stone  will  part, 
Of  thy  bronze  and  stone  will  rob  thee — 

Pierce  thee  to  the  heart. 
Caravans,  e'en  now,  are  passing 

Through  thy  rocks  afar, 
Where  before  the  fogs  were  swimming — 

And  the  Eagle  Tsar. 
Ah,  mankind  is  bold  and  fearless! 

Dreads  no  lifted  hand, 
Guard  thee!  populous  and  mighty 

Is  the  morning  land!" 
"Threatens  me  the  East?"  then  queried 

Kasbek  with  disdain, 
56 


THE  DISPUTE 

"There  eight  centuries  already 

Sleeping,  man  has  lain. 
See,  in  shadow  the  Grusine 

Gloats  in  lustful  greed, 
On  his  many  coloured  raiment 

Glints  the  winey  bead! 
Drugged  with  fumes  of  his  nargileh, 

Dreams  the  Mussulman — 
By  the  fountains  on  his  divan 

Slumbers  Teheran. 
See!    Jerusalem  is  lying 

At  his  feet  o'erthrown — 
Deathly  dumb  and  lifeless  staring 

As  an  earthly  tomb. 
And  beyond  the  Nile  is  washing 

O'er  the  burning  steps 
Of  the  Kingly  mausoleums, 

Yellow,  shadowless. 
In  his  tent,  the  hunt  forgotten — 

Now  the  Bedouin  lies, 
Sings  the  old  ancestral  legends, 

Scans  the  starry  skies. 
See!  far  as  the  eye  can  venture, 

All  sleeps  as  before — 
No,  the  threat  of  dreaming  Orient 

Frights  me  nevermore!" 
"Laugh  thou  not  too  early,  Kasbek," 

Elbrus  did  persist — 
"Look!  What  vast  mass  is  it  turning 

Northward,  through  the  mist?" 


57 


THE  DISPUTE 

Secretly  the  heart  of  Kasbek 

Faltered, — as  amazed, 
Silent  and  with  dark  foreboding 

.To  the  North  he  gazed: 
Full  of  woe  stared  in  the  distance; 

What  a  thronging  swarm! 
Hark!  there  rings  the  clash  of  weapons! 

Battle-cry  alarm! 
From  the  Don  unto  the  Ural 

What  a  human  sea! 
Regiments  that  wave  and  glitter 

Past  all  counting  be! 
Feathers  white  like  sedge  of  ocean, 

Waving  in  a  gust — 
Many  coloured  Uhlans  storming 

Through  the  blowing  dust. 
The  imperial  battalions 

Densely  packed  proceed, 
Trumpets  flaring,  banners  flying 

In  the  victor's  lead. 
Batteries  with  brasses  rattling 

Conquering  advance, 
With  their  blood-red  splendor  flashing 

Cannon  matches  glance. 
And  a  battle-proved  commander 

Leads  the  army  there — 
From  whose  eyes  the  lightning  flashes, 

'Neath  his  snowy  hair. 
Swells  the  host  until  as  Griesbach's 

Billows  roaring  loud, 


THE  DISPUTE 

From  the  Eastward  nears  the  army 

As  a  thunder  cloud. 
Kasbek  peered  with  sinister  boding 

Through  the  clouds, — would  fain 
Count  his  enemies  approaching — 

Found  it  was  in  vain: 
Threw  one  glance  unto  the  mountains — 

Anguished,  overcome, 
O'er  his  brow  drew  close  the  vapours, 

Was  forever  dumb. 

LERMONTOFF. 


59 


HEAVEN  AND  THE  STARS 

"DRILLIANT  heavens  of  evening, 
Distant  stars  clearly  shining, 
Bright  as  the  rapture  of  childhood, 

0  why  dare  I  send  you  nevermore  greeting — 
Stars,  who  are  shining  as  clear  as  my  joy? 

What  is  thy  sorrow? 
Mortals  make  question. 
This  is  my  sorrow; 
The  heavens  and  the  stars  are — heaven  and  stars  ever, 

1  am  alas!  but  a  perishing  man! 

Forever  mortal 

Envies  his  neighbor ; 

I  envy  rather 

Ye  in  your  freedom,  ye  stars  ever  radiant, 
And  only  would  be  in  your  places! 

LERMONTOFF. 


60 


ON  NAPOLEON'S  DEATH 

hears  thy  soul    the    praise    or    cursing  of 
posterity. 

Quit  of  the  human  race,  thou  man  of  destiny! 
They  only  could  o'erthrow,  who  thee  did  elevate — 
Forever  thus  remains  thy  greatness  great! 

LERMONTOFF. 


61 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PUSHKIN 

11JE  fell,  a  slave  of  tinsel-honour, 

A  sacrifice  to  slander's  lust; 
The  haughty  Poet's  head,  the  noblest, 
Bowed  on  his  wounded  breast  in  dust. 
No  longer  could  his  free  soul  suffer 
The  vulgar  world's  low  infamy; 
He  rose  against  the  world's  opinion, 
And  as  a  hero,  lone  fell  he. 
He  fell!  To  what  avail  the  sobbing — 
The  useless  choir  of  tears  and  praise? 
Wretched  the  stammering  excuses! 
The  Fates  have  spoke, — no  power  allays! 
Have  ye  not  at  all  times  together 
His  sacred  genius  baited  sore, 
The  silent  fury  fanned  to  flaming, 
Delighted  in  your  work  before? 
O  be  triumphant!  Earthly  torment 
The  Poet  soul  did  fully  bear, 
Extinguished  are  the  lights  inspired, 
The  laurel  crown  lies  leafless  there! 
The  murderer  contemptuous  gazing 
Did  stedfastly  his  weapon  aim, 
No  swifter  beat  his  heart,  Assassin! 
Nor  shook  his  lifted  hand  for  shame. 
No  wonder;  from  a  distance  came  he 
As  an  adventurer  unknown, 
62 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PUSHKIN 

For  worthy  title,  star  of  order — 
Stood  but  his  mad  desire  alone. 
Sneering  and  self-complacent  mocked  he 
The  rights  and  customs  of  our  land, 
He  could  not  understand  our  glory, 
Against  which  he  has  raised  his  hand. 

"Hence  is  he,  hence!    His  song  out-rung, 
The  Singer  even  as  the  song  he  sung; 
Who  of  a  hot,  heroic  mood, 
In  death  disgraceful  shed  his  blood!"  * 

Why  did  he  leave  his  home  life  tranquil, 
To  seek  the  envious  market  place, 
Where  each  free  flame  is  suffocated, 
Expose  him  to  the  assassin  base? 
The  human  breed,  who  had  known  better 
Since  earliest  years  of  youth,  than  he — 
Why  did  he  trust  the  false  pretending 
Of  malice  and  hypocrisy? 
Ah,  of  his  laurel  wreath  you  robbed  him, 
Gave  him  a  martyr's  crown  instead, 
And  now  the  cruel  thorns  have  pierced  him 
E'en  to  the  blood  of  his  proud  head! 
His  last  days  were  for  him  envenomed — 
Through  senseless  fools'  contempt  aggrieved, 
He  died  revenge  a'thirst,  accusing 
That  every  hope  his  heart  deceived! 


*  These  four  lines  are  from  Pushkin's  own  romantic 
poem,  "Onegin." 

63 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  PUSHKIN 

Mute  evermore  the  magic  echoes, 
That  ne'er  shall  wonders  more  reveal, 
The  Poet's  home  is  dark  and  narrow — 
Upon  the  Singer's  lips  a  seal. 

But  ye,  sons  insolent  and  shameless — 
Defamers,  faithless  fathers,  ye! 
Who  trod  the  pure  soul  of  another 
Beneath  your  feet,  who  zealously 
Press  to  the  Tsar's  throne  with  your  driveling 
For  fame  and  freedom,  hatred  steeled! 
Well  may  you  sneer  at  truth  and  justice, 
The  law  provides  you  screen  and  shield, 
Only  a  higher  law  shall  sentence! 
A  mighty  Judge  beyond  assail 
Avenge  the  Poet's  death  on  his  slayers, 
The  Highest  Judge  who  does  not  fail! 
So  then  calumniate  with  brazen  courage, 
Your  hatred's  fury  nought  restrains — 
Since  your  dark  blood  could  ne'er  atone  for 
One  drop  within  the  Poet's  pure  veins. 

LERMONTOFF. 


64 


RUSSIA,   O  MY  RUSSIA,   HAIL! 

J>  USSIA,  O  my  Russia,  hail! 

Steeds  as  tempests  flying, 
Howling  of  the  distant  wolves, 
Eagles  high,  shrill  crying! 
Hail,  my  Russia,  hail!     Hail  high! 
Hail  thy  green  forests  proud, 
Hail  thy  silvery  nightingales, 
Hail  Steppes  and  wind  and  cloud! 

TOLSTOY. 


THE  WOLVES 

the  church-village  slumbers 
And  the  last  songs  are  sung, 
When  the  grey  mist  arising, 
Is  o'er  the  marshes  hung, 
'Tis  then  the  woods  forsaking, 
Their  way  cross  country  taking, 
Nine  howling  wolves  come  hungering  for  food. 

Behind  the  first, — the  grey  one, — 

Trot  seven  more  of  black, 
Close  on  their  hoary  leader; 

As  rearguard  of  the  pack 
The  red  wolf  limps,  all  bloody, 
His  paws  with  gore  still  ruddy 
As  after  his  companions  grim  he  pants. 

When  through  the  village  lurking 

Nought  gives  them  check  or  fright, 
No  watch  dog  dares  to  bellow, 

The  peasant  ghastly  white, 
His  breath  can  scarce  be  taking, 
His  limbs  withhold  from  shaking — 
While  prayers  of  terror  freeze  upon  his  lips! 

About  the  church  they  circle 
And  softly  slink  away 
66 


THE  WOLVES 

To  prowl  about  the  priest's  farm, 

Then  of  a  sudden  they 
Are  round  the  drink  shop  turning, 
Fain  some  bad  word  be  learning — 
From  peasants  drinking  noisily  within. 

With  fully  thirteen  bullets 

Thy  weapon  must  be  armed, 
And  with  a  wad  of  goat's  hair; 

Then  thou  wilt  fight  unharmed. 
Fire  calmly, — and  before  all 
Will  the  leader,  the  grey,  fall, 
The  rest  will  surely  follow  one  by  one. 

When  the  cock  wakes  the  village 

From  out  its  morning  dream, 
Thou  wilt  behold  the  corpses — 

Nine  she- wolves  by  the  stream! 
On  the  right  lies  the  grey  one, 
To  left  in  frost  the  lame  one — 
All  bloody, — God  pardon  us  sinners! 

TOLSTOY. 


AUTUMN 

A  UTUMN  'tis!     Our  garden  stands 

Flowerless  and  bare, 
Dizzy  whirling  yellow  leaves 

Fill  the  wind  swept  air. 
Yet  the  distant  mountain  ash 

In  the  vale  below, 
With  our  favorite  berries  red 

Now  begins  to  glow. 
While  with  rapture  and  with  pain 

Throbbing  in  my  breast, 
Pressing  hot  thy  hands  in  mine, 

Silent,  unexpressed — 
Fondly  gazing  in  thine  eyes, 

Through  my  tears  I  see — 
That  I  can  never  tell  thee 

How  dear  thou  art  to  me! 

TOLSTOY. 


68 


BURNT  OUT  IS  NOW  MY  MISERY 

"DURNT  out  is  now  my  misery — 

love's  yearning 

No  more  unspeakably  torments  my  heart, 
Yet  bearable  alone  through  thee,  my  being — 
All  thou  art  not  is  idle,  stale  and  dying, 
Colourless,  withered,  dead, — save  where  thou  art! 

If  I  no  more  through  false  suspicion  trouble 

Thy   happiness, — nor    more   my   blood  inflames  my 

veins, 

It  is  not  turned  to  ice  'neath  snowy  cover, 
But  free  from  jealousy,  to  thee  thy  lover 
Always  with  soul  of  ardour  true  remains. 

So  in  their  rapid  fury  mountain  torrents 
That  hurl  them  off  their  moss-grown  altars  steep, 
Seeking  the  flood  with  tossing,  foaming  riot — 
Here  in  the  vale  are  bound  in  the  old  currents, 
To  stream  in  future  calm  and  clear  and  deep! 

TOLSTOY. 


69 


IN  HOURS   OF  EBBING  TIDE 

TN  hours  of  ebbing  tide,  oh  trust  not  to  the  Sea! 

It  will  come  back  to  shore  with  redness  of  the 
morrow; 

O  don't  believe  in  me  when  in  the  trance  of  sorrow 
I  swear  I  am  no  longer  true  to  thee! 

The  waves  will  roll  again  in  dazzling  ecstasy, 
From  far  away,  with  joy,  to  the  beloved  shore; 
And  I  with  breast  aflame,  beneath  thy  charm  once 

more, 
Shall  haste  to  bring  my  liberty  to  thee! 

TOLSTOY. 


70 


SWANS 

"1X7HITE   Swans,  ye  harbingers  of  Spring,  a  greet- 
ing fond  from  me! 
Rejoicing  thrills  within  the  breast  of  Mother  Earth 

anew — 
From   her   once   more   the   flowers   push  forth  'mid 

gleaming  drops  of  dew, 
And  like  the  Swans,  across  my  soul  my  dreams  will 

lightly  sweep, 
And  my  heart  blissful   throbbing,    ghostly   tears   of 

rapture  weep. 
O   Spring   I   feel   thy   coming!     And    behold    Thee, 

Poesy! 

MAIKOW. 


TO  SLEEP 

VX^HEN  shadows  pale  are  sinking  in  hues  the  twi- 
light weaves, 
Upon  the  golden  grain  fields  of  gleaming  wheaten 

sheaves — 

Upon  the  emerald  pastures  and  blue  of  forests  deep, 
When  the  soft  mists  of  silver  o'er  the  sea  doth  creep; 
When  'mid  the  reeds,  the  swan's  head  is  pillowed 

'neath  her  wings, 
The  stream  to  sleep  is  rocking,  light  flowing  as  she 

sings, — 
Then  to  my  hut  o'er  thatched  with  golden  straw, — 

o'er  grown 

By  frail  acacia  green  and  leafy  oaks,  I  turn. 
And    there    with    greeting    holy,    in    radiant    starry 

crown — 
Her  scented  locks   with  deepest   of   purple   poppies 

bound, 
And   with    one    dusky    gauze    enveiled    her    snowy 

breast — 

The  Goddess  comes  to  me  with  sweet  desire  of  rest. 
A  faint  and  roseate  fire  about  my  brow  she  sheds, 
Soft  mystery  of  azure  above  my 'eyelids  spreads, 
Bends  low  upon  my  breast  her  regal  star-crowned 

tresses 
And  on  my  mouth  and  eyes,  the  kiss  of  slumber 

presses! 

MAIKOW. 
72 


IN  MEMORY   OF  MY  DAUGHTER 

/"^LEAR  on  the  night  of  my  spirit, 

To  me  shines  the  glance  of  a  star, 
It  is  she!     My  heart's  little  maiden! 
From  her  glance  gleams  something  afar, 
Of  victory,  deathless,  eternal — 
Something  that  musing,  misgiving, 
Pierces  the  essence  of  being! 

It  cannot  be!     It  cannot  be! 

She  lives — soon  she  will  waken;   straightway 

Will  ope  her  pretty  eyes, — glad  she 

Will  prattle  merry,  laughing  gay! 

And  when  in  tears  beholding  me — 

Will  smiling,  kissing,  cry  consoling, 

"Papa — it  is  but  playing — See! 

I  live, — yes!     Leave  off  mourning!" 

But  cold  and  mute  she  lies,  alas! 

And  motionless. 

Now  in  her  coffin  she  lies, 
Silent  amid  scented  flowers — 
Ah  what  mute  spirits  in  white 
O'er  her  corpse  circle  and  hover? 
Are  they  the  visions  of  bliss? 
Are  they  all  spirits  of  hope? 
That  during  life  lured  her  on — 
73 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  DAUGHTER 

Those  to  whom  secretly  oft 
She  had  entrusted  her  soul? 
They  that  accompanied  her  e'er, 
Faithful  in  forest  and  field? 
Silent  they  circle  my  child, 
In  tearful  anguish  embraced — 
Yet  little  actress  she  lies, 
Smiling,  closed  lashes  beneath; 
See,  she  is  laughing  in  truth — 
O  thou  most  merciless  Death! 

MAIKOW. 


74 


MOTHER  AND  CHILD 

"  \/lOTHER'  why  weePest  thou  ever 

For  my  little  sister  fair? 
She  is  now  in  heaven's  kingdom — 
Ah,  it  must  be  wondrous  there!" 

"Yes,  she  is  in  heaven's  glory, 

But  in  heaven's  own  land,  alas! 
There  are  no  butterflies  nor  flowers — 

Nor  meadows  of  velvet  grass!" 

"But  mother,  God's  blessed  angels 

There,  rejoicing  sing  to  Him!" 
Forth  from  the  sunset's  rosy  fires 

Now  cometh  the  midnight  dim. 

Ah,  the  mother  wants  her  baby — 

That  she  watched  from  the  window  wide, 

When  'mid  butterflies  and  blossoms 
She  played  in  the  meadow's  pride! 

MAIKOW. 


75 


AN  EASTER  GREETING 

HPHE  lark  at  sunrise  trills  it  high — 

The  greeting  Christ  is  risen! 
And  through  the  wood  the  black-bird  pipes 
The  greeting  Christ  is  risen! 
Beneath  the  eaves  the  swallows  cry 
The  greeting  Christ  is  risen! 
Throughout  the  world  man's  heart  proclaims 
The  greeting  Christ  is  risen! 
And  echo  answers  from  the  grave 
In  truth,  yes,  He  is  risen! 

MAIKOW. 


76 


AT  EASTER 

FJRAWING  near  the  Easter  Sunday 

With  the  Easter-greeting  kiss; 
When  I  come,  remember  Dora — 
Not  alone  we  suffer  this! 
Then,  as  were  it  for  the  first  time — 
Kiss  thou  me  and  I  kiss  thee; 
Thou  with  modest  eyelids  downcast, 
I  with  but  ill  stifled  glee! 

MAIKOW. 


The  religious  custom  of  the  Easter-greeting  kiss  pre- 
vails throughout  Russia. 


77 


O  MOUNTAINS  OF  MY  NATIVE  COUNTRY! 

"  Q  MOUNTAINS  of  my  native  country!  O  val- 
leys of  my  home! 

On  you  gleam  Winter's  snowflakes  white  and  twinkle 
lambs  of  Summer — 

On  you  the  rosy  sunlight  glows,  you  know  no  deathly 
shudder!" 

So,  'neath  the  earth  did  wistful  yearn  three  homesick 

youths  in  Hades, 
Who  fain  from  out  that  under  world  to  worlds  above 

would  hasten. 

The  first  declared  "We'll  go  in  Spring!"    The  sec- 
ond "No,  in  Summer!" 
"No,"  cried  the  third,  "at  harvesting,  in  time  the 

grapes  to  gather!" 
A  listening  maiden  fair,  o'erheard  with  heart  resistless 

throbbing ; 
Upon  her  breast  her  arms  she  crossed  and  begged  of 

them  imploring — 
"0  take  me  to  the  upper  world ! "    Alone  the  youths 

made  answer, 
"That  cannot  be,  you  fairest  maid,  that  you  with  us 

be  taken! 
Your  heels  would  clatter  as  you  speed,  your  dress 

would  rustle  silken, 
Your  rattling  ornaments  warn  death  to  hear  us  all 

escaping." 

78 


0  MOUNTAINS   OF   MY  NATIVE   COUNTRY! 

"My  rustling  dress  I  will  unlace, — my  ornaments 

forsaking, 
Barefooted   up   the   stairway   steep    will   mute   and 

cautious  follow! 
Ah,  but  too  gladly  would  I  gaze  again  on  earthly 

living ! 

1  fain  my  mother  would  console,  sad  for  her  daughter 

grieving— 
I  would  my  brothers  twain  behold,  who  for  their  sister 

sorrow!" 
"O  do  not  yearn,  thou  wretched  child,  for  those 

thou  lovest,  ever! 
Thy  brothers  in  the  village  street  now  joyful  lead  the 

wrestling — 
And  with  the  neighbors  on  the  street  thy  mother 

gossips  zestful!" 

MAIKOW. 


79 


THE  ^OLIAN  HARP 

land  lies  parched  in  sun, — to  heaven  the  air 
is  still, 
Hushed  now  upon  the  harp  the  golden  strings'  lost 

thrill; 

^Solian  harps  our  native  singers  are, — and  numb 
Must  be  their  heart,  their  dying  life  blood  cease  to 

flow, 

Forever  silent  be  their  voice,  if  longer  dumb 
Their  breath  be  suffocated  in  this  sultry  glow! 
O  if  a  Genius  on  tempest-pinions  winging, 
Stormed  through  our  native  land, — Spirit  with  free- 
dom rife! 

How  jubilant  would  our  JEolian  harps  be  ringing 
To  greet  the  Godly  power  that  promises  new  life! 

MAIKOW. 


80 


YE  SONGS  OF  MINE! 

songs  of  mine!     Of  universal  sorrows 
A  living  witness  ye; 
Born  of  the  passion  of  the  soul,  bewailing 

Tempestuous  and  free, 
The  hard  heart  of  humanity  assailing 
As  doth  her  cliffs  the  sea! 

NEKRASSOW. 


81 


IN  WAR 

pj  EARING  the  terrors  of  the  war,  sore  troubled, 

By  each  new  victim  of  the  combat  torn — 
Nor  friend,  nor  wife  I  give  my  utmost  pity, 

Nor  do  I  for  the  fallen  hero  mourn. 
Alas!  the  wife  will  find  a  consolation. 

The  friend  by  friend  is  soon  forgot  in  turn. 

But  somewhere  is  the  one  soul  that  remembers — 
That  will  remember  unto  death's  dark  shore, 

Nor  can  the  tears  of  a  heart-stricken  mother 
Forget  the  sons  gone  down  on  fields  of  gore. 

One  soul  there  is  that  like  the  weeping  willow 
Can  never  raise  its  drooping  branches  more. 

NEKRASSOW. 


82 


THE  SONGS  OF  SIBERIAN  EXILES 

stand  unbroken  in  our  places, 
Our  shovels  dare  to  take  no  rest, 
For  not  in  vain  his  golden  treasure 
God  buried  deep  in  earth's  dark  breast. 

Then  shovel  on  and  do  not  falter, 
Humble  and  hopeful,  clear  we  see — 
When  Russia  has  grown  rich  and  mighty, 
Our  grandchildren  will  grateful  be! 

Though  streams  the  sweat  in  rivers  downward, 
Our  arms  from  shoveling  grown  weak, 
Our  bodies  frozen  to  an  ice  crust 
While  we  new  strength  in  slumber  seek — 

Sweating  or  freezing,  we  will  bear  it! 
Thirst-pain  and  hunger  will  withstand, 
For  each  stone  is  of  use  to  Russia, 
And  each  is  given  by  our  own  hand! 

NEKRASSOW. 

Written  to  a  band  of  political  exiles  including  some  of 
the  highest  aristocracy. 


FREEDOM 

/"")FT  through  my  native  land  I  roved  before, 
But  never  such  a  cheerful  spirit  bore. 

When  on  its  mother's  breast  a  child  I  spy — 
Hope  in  my  inmost  heart  doth  secret  cry, 

"Boy,  thou  art  born  within  a  favoring  time, 
Thine  eyes  shall  glad  escape  old  sights  of  crime. 

Free  as  a  child,  thou  can'st  prove  all  and  be 
The  forger  sole  of  thine  own  destiny. 

Peasant  remain, — as  to  thy  father  given — 
Or  like  the  eagle  swing  thyself  to  heaven!" 

Castles  in  air  I  build!     Man's  spirit  opes 
To  many  ways  to  frustrate  all  my  hopes. 

Though  serfdom's  sad  conditions  left  behind, 
Yet  there  be  countless  snares  of  varied  kind! — 

Well!    Although  the  people  soon  may  rend  thee, 
Let  me,  oh  Freedom,  a  welcome  send  thee! 

NEKRASSOW. 


•    Written  shortly  after  the  freeing  of  the  serfs. 

84 


A  FAREWELL 

PAREWELL!     Forget  the  days  of  trial, 

Of  grudge,  ill  humor,  misery — 
Tempests  of  heart  and  floods  of  weeping, 
And  the  revengeful  jealousy. 
Ah,  but  the  days  whereon  the  sun  rose 
To  light  love's  wonder,  and  begot 
In  us  the  power  of  aspiration, — 
O  bless  them  and  forget  them  not! 

NEKRASSOW. 


THE  LOVE  LETTER 

TETTER  of  love  so  strangely  thrilling 
With  all  your  countless  wonder  yet, 
Though  Time  our  heart's  hot  fires  have  mastered, 
Bringing  a  pang  of  pained  regret! 
The  while  your  blest  receiver  holds  you, 
His  banished  passions  still  rebel, 
No  longer  reason  sacrifices 
His  sentiment, — so  then  farewell! 
Destroyed  be  this  love-token  treasured! 
For  if  'tis  read  when  time  has  flown, 
Deep  in  the  buried  soul  'twill  waken 
The  torment  vanished  days  have  known. 
At  first  but  a  light  scorn  arousing 
For  silly  childishness, — at  last 
With  fiery  yearning  overwhelming, 
And  jealousy  for  all  the  past. 

O  Thou,  from  whom  a  myriad  letters 
Speak  with  the  breath  of  love  to  me, 
Though  my  gaze  rest  on  thee  austerely, 
Yet,  yet, — I  cannot  part  with  thee! 
Time  has  revealed  with  bitter  clearness 
How  little  thou  with  truth  wert  blessed, 
How  like  a  child  my  own  behaviour — 
Yet,  dear  to  me  I  still  must  save 
This  flower  scentless,  without  colour, 
From  off  my  manhood's  early  grave! 

NEKRASSOW. 
86 


WHATTHESLEEPLESSGRANDAMTHINKS 

A  LL  through  the  cold  night,  beating  wings  shadowy 

Sweep  o'er  the  church-village  poor, — 
Only  one  Grandam  a  hundred  years  hoary, 
Findeth  her  slumber  no  more. 


Harkens,  if  cocks  to  the  dawn  be  not  crowing, 

Rolls  on  her  oven  and  weeps, 
Sees  all  her  past  rising  up  to  confront  her — 

O'er  her  soul  shameful  it  creeps! 

"Woe  to  me  sinner  old!    Woe!    Once  I  cheated- 
When  from  the  church  door  I  ran, 

And  in  the  depths  of  the  forest  strayed  hidden 
With  my  beloved  Ivan. 

"Woe  to  me!    Burning  in  hell's  leaping  fires 

Surely  will  soon  be  my  soul! 
I  took  a  pair  of  eggs  once  at  a  neighbor's — 

Out  from  her  hen — yes,  I  stole! 

"Once  at  the  harvest  at  home  I  did  linger — 

Swore  I  was  deadly  sick, — when 
Taking  my  part  in  the  drunken  carousals 

Saturday  night  with  the  men! 
87 


WHAT  THE  SLEEPLESS  GRANDAM  THINKS 

"Light  was  I  ever  with  soldiers!    Yet  cursing 
God's  name,  when  from  me  at  last, — 

My  own  son  they  took  for  a  soldier! 
Even  drank  cream  on  a  fast. 

"Woe  to  me  sinner!    Woe  to  me  wretched  one! 

Woe!    My  heart  broken  will  be! 
Holy  Madonna,  have  pity,  have  mercy! 

Into  court  go  not  with  me!" 

NEKRASSOW. 


The  stoves  of  the  peasants  are  built  so  that  they  can 
sleep  on  top  of  them  in  the  extreme  cold  of  Winter. 


88 


TO   RUSSIA 


a  giant  tent 
Of  the  heavens  blue, 
Stretch  the  verdant  Steppes; 
Range  beyond  the  view. 

On  the  distant  rim 
Lift  the  outlines  proud, 
Of  their  mountain  walls 
To  the  drifting  cloud. 

Through  the  Steppes  there  rolls 
Stream  on  stream  to  sea, 
Wide  meandering, 
Straying  far  and  free. 

Do  I  Southward  gaze  — 
Like  the  ocean  there, 
Ripening  fields  of  grain 
Wave  and  ripple  fair. 

Softest  velvet  sod 
Decks  the  meadow  floor, 
In  the  vineyards  green 
Swells  the  grape  once  more. 
89 


TO  RUSSIA 

Do  I  Northward  turn — 
O'er  the  waste  lands  lone, 
Soft  as  eider  down 
Are  the  snowflakes  blown. 

And  his  azure  waves 
High  the  ocean  lifts, 
On  his  cold  blue  breast 
Now  an  iceberg  drifts. 

And  as  leaping  flame 
Burn  the  Northern  lights, 
On  the  darkness  gleam 
Through  the  silent  nights. 

Even  so  art  thou, 
Russian  realm,  become, — 
Thou  my  native  land, 
Shield  of  Christendom! 

Far  away  hast  thou, 
Throughout  lands  untold, 
In  thy  glory  fair, 
Russia,  been  enrolled! 

Art  thou  not  in  space 
E'en  o'er  well  supplied? 
Where  a  spirit  bold 
Freely  wanders  wide! 
90 


TO  RUSSIA 

Hast  thou  not  alway 
Gold  and  grain  rich  stored? 
For  thy  friend  a  feast? 
For  thy  foe  a  sword? 

Guards  and  shields  thee  not 
With  a  sacred  might, 
Holy  altar  forms, 
Deeds  of  glory  bright? 

To  whom  hast  thou  e'er 
Bent  an  humble  knee? 
Or  before  whom  bowed 
Seeking  charity? 

In  the  Kurgan  deep, 
Met  in  open  fight, 
Thou  hast  e'en  subdued 
The  fierce  Tartar's  might. 

Fought  to  bloody  death 
The  Lithuanian  horde, 
The  defiant  Pole 
Scattered  with  a  sword. 

And  how  long  ago, 
Black  clouds,  rising  out 
Of  the  distant  West, 
Compassed  thee  about? 


TO  RUSSIA 

'Neath  the  lightning  flash 
Sank  the  woods  away, 
Trembled  the  earth's  breast, 
Pierce'd  with  dismay. 

And  the  inky  smoke 
Ruinous  did  rise 
From  the  village  burnt 
To  the  cloudy  skies. 

Loudly  to  the  fight 
Then  the  Tsar  did  call- 
Russia  swift  replied, 
Coming  one  and  all. 

Women,  children  came — 
Men  from  age  to  youth, 
Gave  their  evil  guest 
Bloody  feast  in  truth! 

And  in  lonely  fields 
Under  ice  and  snow, 
To  his  endless  sleep 
Laid  the  victim  low. 

Where  the  snowstorms  wild 
Raised  o'er  him  a  tomb, 
While  the  North  wind  sang 
Dirges  in  the  gloom. 
92 


TO  RUSSIA 

Town  and  village  too 
Over  all  our  land, 
Now  like  ant  hills  swarm 
With  this  Christian  band. 

Now  from  distant  shores 
O'er  the  cruel  sea, 
Ship  on  ship  draws  near 
Homage  paying  thee. 

Blooming  are  thy  fields, 
Soft  thy  forests  sigh, 
Hid  in  earth's  dark  breast 
Golden  treasures  lie. 

And  to  East  and  West, 
To  the  South  and  North- 
Flies  thy  louder  fame 
Through  the  wide  world  forth! 

Holy  Russia,  thou    ' 
Dost  deserve  to  be 
"Mother"  called  by  all, 
In  our  love  to  thee! 

For  thy  glory  fair 
We  should  face  the  foe, 
And  thy  freedom  guarding 
Glad  our  lives  bestow! 

NIKITIN. 

93 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

HpO  seven  kopek  the  heir, 

Nor  house  nor  land  have  I — 
Live  I — hey!    I  live  then! 
Die  I — hey!    I  die! 

In  many  realms  the  Fool 
Can  sleep  no  wink  for  care, 

While  yet  the  spendthrift  snores 
When  dawns  the  morning  fair. 

Free  as  the  wind  he  blows, 
Door  nor  gate  to  balk  him, 

Riches,  hey!    Now  give  place! 
Poverty  goes  walking! 

Before  me  bends  the  rye 
When  through  the  fields  I  stray 

And  glad  the  forest  hears 
My  pipe  and  song  alway. 

If  one  must  bitter  weep — 

No  man  will  see  his  tears, 
If  sadly  bowed  his  head — 

None  save  the  partridge  jeers. 
94 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

If  weary  one,  or  not, 

What  matters  anything? 
Let  him  toss  back  his  locks 

And  playful  laugh  and  sing! 

And  if  one  die, — the  grave 
Will  warm  his  hands  and  feet! 

Dost  to  my  song  respond? 
Nay?    Then  it  is  complete. 

NIKITIN. 


95 


THE  SPADE  IS  DEEP  DIGGING  A  GRAVE 
IN  THE  MOULD 

'TPHE  spade  is  deep  digging  a  grave  in  the  mould.  .  . 

O  Life, — so  o'erflowing  with  sorrows  untold, 
My  life,  so  homeless  and  lonely  and  weary, 
Life,  as  an  Autumn  night  silent  and  dreary — 
Bitter  in  truth  is  thy  fate  'neath  the  sky, 
And  as  a  fire  of  the  field  wilt  thou  die! 
Die  then — no  sad  falling  tear  will  recall  thee, 
Fast  will  the  roof  of  thy  pine  coffin  wall  thee, 
Heavy  the  earth  falls  upon  the  sad  hearted — 
Only  one  more  from  humanity  parted; 
One  whose  home-going  no  fond  heart  is  tearing — 
One  for  whom  no  soul  will  sorrow  despairing! 

Hark!    What  a  silvery  music  is  ringing! 
Hark!    What  a  careless  and  jubilant  singing! 
See  on  ethereal  azure  waves  swinging, 
Now  the  glad  lark  to  her  South-land  is  winging! 
Silence,  O  Life  full  of  doubting  and  fears, 
Hushed  first  of  all  be  the  songs  of  men's  tears! 

NIKITIN. 


96 


GOSSIP 

HPHOUGH  blameless  thy  living 

As  Anchorite's  fate, 
Yet  Gossip  will  find  thee 
Or  early  or  late. 

Through  keyhole  he  enters 

And  stands  at  thy  side, 
Doors  of  wood  nor  of  stone 

Against  him  provide. 

He  pulls  the  alarm  bell 

At  slightest  excuse — 
And  down  to  thy  grave 

Will  pursue  with  abuse. 

Self  defence  nothing  boots  thee, 

Thy  flight  he  will  worst — 
To  earth  he  will  tread  thee, 

O  Gossip  be  cursed! 

NlKITIN. 


97 


IN  A  PEASANT  HUT 


CULTRY  dampness — pine  chips  smoking, 

Off-scourings  a  span  length, 
In  the  corners  webs  of  spiders, 
Smut  on  dish  and  bench. 


Sooty  black  the  bare  wall,  crock  stained, 
Water — dry  hard  bread; 
Groanings,  coughings,  children's  whimper, 
Wretched  bitter  need! 

And  a  beggar's  death  for  years  of 
Harshest  drudgery — 
Learn  to  put  your  trust  in  God  here, 
And  to  patient  be. 

NlKITIN. 


98 


WINTER  NIGHT  IN  THE  VILLAGE 

/"VER  the  church  roof  wanders 
Mute  and  calm  the  moon, 
Blue  upon  the  snowdrifts 
Sparkling  silent  down. 

By  the  small  pond  dreaming, 
Stands  the  church  a'gleam — 

With  its  gold  cross  twinkling 
As  a  taper's  beam. 

Peaceful  in  the  village 
Darkness  reigns  and  sleep, 

Every  hut  is  standing 
Snowed  in  window  deep. 

Out  upon  the  highway 

Hushed  and  empty  all, 
Now  the  howling  watch  dogs 

Even,  silent  fall. 

After  their  day's  labor 
Young  and  old  are  pressed 

Weak  and  worn,  on  their  hard 
Narrow  place  of  rest. 
99 


WINTER  NIGHT  IN  THE  VILLAGE 

In  one  cottage  only 
Shines  a  lamplight,  where 

A  sick  old  hoary-head 
Groans  in  soul-despair. 

Death  is  near, — and  of  her 
Grandchildren  thinks  she, 

Smitten  sore  the  orphans 
Harvest  time  will  be. 

Ah  the  poor,  poor  children! 

Now  so  young  for  strife, 
All  untried  and  helpless 

In  the  woe  of  life! 

Among  stranger  people 

Older  they  will  grow — 
Evil  hearts  will  lure  them 

Evil  ways  to  go. 

With  disgrace  too  early 

They  will  make  a  bond, 
Shamed  and  God  forsaken 

Sink  unto  the  ground. 

Dear  God,  thyself  take  them, 

Thy  forsaken  poor — 
Staff  and  light  be  to  them 

Thyself  evermore! 
100 


WINTER  NIGHT  IN  THE  VILLAGE 

And  the  sacred  lamplight 

Calm  and  silent  strays; 
On  the  holy  pictures 

Fall  its  trembling  rays; 

O'er  the  aged  features, 

O'er  the  dying  form, 
O'er  the  two  small  children 

On  the  stove  bench  warm. 

Sudden,  through  the  stillness 

Rings  a  merry  cry — 
And  his  jingling  troika 

Drives  a  reveller  by! 

Dies  in  silent  distance 

Sleighbell  clangor  strong, 
And  the  careless,  merry, 

Sorrow-troubling  song. 

NlKITIN. 


101 


THE  BIRCH  TREE 

bald  and  sun-parched  earth  it  rises, 
One  lonely  birch,  high  towering — 
Upon  its  withered  crown  wide  spreading, 
Green  leafage  never  more  will  sing. 

Up  to  the  rim  of  the  horizon 
Where  veiling  mists  all  soft  enclose, 

Runneth  the  blossoming  of  flowers, 
The  Steppe's  green  ocean  waving  flows. 

In  green  enchantment  stands  the  Kurgan, 
Where  evening  dampness  doth  enfold, 

The  night  descends  with  sleep  and  coolness, 
The  morning  sunbeams  touch  with  gold. 

Yet  loveless,  helpless  stands  the  birch  tree — 
In  heaven's  grey,  musing  sad  to  view, 

And  from  its  branches  fall  like  tear-drops 
The  gleaming  pearls  of  morning  dew. 

Scattered,  alas!  her  tender  leaflets, 

In  howling  storms, — so  far,  so  wide! 
Ne'er  will  the  birch,  to  greet  the  Springtide, 
Be  fresh  adorned  in  leafy  pride! 

NIKITIN. 
102 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 

J^NOWEST    thou   the    land    of    fragrance    ardent 

glowing? 

Where  night  sublimely  sparkles  on  the  flowing 
Of  the  sea?      Murmuring  in  starlight  gleam — 
Weaving  about  the  heart  a  wonder  dream? 
Refulgent  in  the   silvering  moonbeams  white, 
In  soft  half  darkness,  gardens  slumbering  light; 
Only  the  fountain's  iridescent  foam 
Upon  the  grass  falls  splashing  down — 
And  images  of  Gods  with  lips  of  silence 
Sunk  in  deep  musing  gaze  on  every  side — 
While,  eloquent  of  fallen  majesty, 
Ruins  entwined  with  ivy  tendrils  be? 
Soft  pictured  on  the  valley's  verdant  meadows 
Dark  cypress  trees  reflect  their  slender  shadows; 
Earth's  bosom  blooming  in  fecundity — 
And  freedom  here  man's  joyful  destiny. 

Yet  more  than  tropic's  soft  abundance  thralling, 
My  stormy  North-land  wilderness  is  calling! 
Her  snowflake  flocks,  her  gleaming  midnight  frosts, 
The  glory  of  grim  forests  on  her  coasts, 
Green  tinted  Steppes  with  distant  bluish  rim — 
The  trooping  clouds  in  heaven's  spaces  dim. 
Unto  the  heart  how  the  familiar  cries! 
The  village  mean  that  in  the  valley  lies, 

103 


NORTH  AND  SOUTH 

The  wealthy  cities'  towering  majesty, 
The  empty  snow-fields'  endless  boundary, — 
The  changeful  moods  that  all  unbridled  throng; 
Spirit  of  Russia  and  of  Russian  song! 
With  joy  now  gushing  forth, — with  pain  now  ring- 
ing— 
Unto  the  hearer's  heart  resistless  singing. 

Thou  fairest  picture!  my  breast  with  rapture  sighs, 
My  spirits  free,  victorious  arise! 
A  song  breaks  forth  to  Russia's  praise  and  glory, 
And  tears  of  joy,  the  while  I  muse,  are  flowing. 
And  jubilant  the  kindling  heart  must  cry — 
Hail  Russia,  Hail!     Thy  loyal  son  am  I! 

NlKITIN. 


104 


HUNGER 

11JARK!    Who  knocks  with  bony  fingers 

On  the  hut's  small  window  latch? 
Hark!    Who  pulls  away  the  stubble 
Rustling,  from  the  roofing  thatch? 

From  the  fields  it  is  not  Vintage, 
Drunk  and  weary  wavers  home — 

'Tis  a  spectre,  meagre,  gloomy, 
As  a  nightmare  dread  become. 

All  subduing,  all  destroying, 

In  his  ragged  garment  poor, 
Drags  he, — on  his  crutches  limping — 

Noiseless  reeling  through  the  door. 

Like  the  usurer  hard  hearted, 

For  his  last  kopek  in  quest, 
Coffer,  cupboard  both  he  opens, 

Breaks  the  lock  of  case  and  chest. 

Lordly  rules  he,  late  and  early — 

In  the  granary;  when  gone 
Every  kernel  of  provision, 

The  last  cattle  he  will  pawn. 
105 


HUNGER 

From  the  land  unto  the  cellar, 
Clean  the  peasant's  hut  he  keeps, 

With  a  coarse  and  clumsy  besom 
Every  tiny  crumb  he  sweeps. 

On  the  village  highway  also 

Works  and  wins  he  over  all, 
From  the  threshing  floor  to  stable— 

From  the  sheepfold  to  the  stall. 

His  approaching,  sorrow  follows — 

On  his  coming,  follows  need, 
On  his  greeting,  follows  sickness, 

On  his  hand-shake  Death  succeeds! 

So  he  seeks  in  all  directions, 

East  and  West  and  South  and  North — 
And  in  empty  field  embraces 

Thankfully  his  friend  the  Frost! 

FOFANOW. 


106 


FADED  THE  FOOTSTEP  OF  SPRING  FROM 
OUR  GARDEN 

C\ADED  the  footstep  of  Spring  from  our  garden, 

Sighing  the  Autumn  wind  vanishing  goes, 
Behold  now,  how  close  to  us  dreams  are  approaching — 
Love,  it  is  time  for  repose! 

List,  how  the  leafage  in  raindrops  all  tearful 
Trembles  and  wails  for  a  sorry  defeat, — 

All  that  was  ours,  that  we  once  proudly  boasted, 
All,  was  a  glittering  cheat. 

Dark  as  a  funeral  pall  hanging  over, 
Fluttering  clouds  in  their  mockery  close; 

Sighing  within  us  is  silenced  our  singing — 
Love,  it  is  time  for  repose. 

Deceitful  from  heaven's  fair  emerald  rainbow, 
Soft  borrowed  glamour  of  moonbeams  doth  woo; 

Since  even  you  to  my  faith  were  disloyal, 
Love,  my  false  Springtime  were  you! 

Soon  will  the  sunbeams  last  radiant  shining 

Trackless  be  hurled  where  the  Autumn  wind  blows, 
Slumber  enmeshes  my  soul  and  the  darkness — 
Love,  it  is  time  for  repose! 

FOFANOW. 
107 


THE  BEGGAR 

'"PHERE  stood  a  beggar  asking  alms 

By  the  cathedral  gate, 
His  face  bore  torture  marks  of  life — 
Pale,  tired,  blind — like  fate. 

Thin,  tired,  pale  and  blind  he  begged 

A  crust  of  bread  alone, 
And  some  one  pausing,  placed  within 

His  outstretched  hand — a  stone. 

And  even  so  I  asked  your  love, 

I  brought  my  dreams,  my  life — the  while 
Unto  my  passion  you  replied 

Only  with  your  cold  smile! 

FOFANOW. 


108 


WITH  ROSES 

r\ARLING,  accept  my  bunch  of  perfumed  roses; — 
Because  in  royal  beauty  and  in  freshness  sweet 
They  dared  to  rival  you, — I  cut  them  down  and  bound 
The  criminals  and  brought  them  to  your  feet. 


From  the  Georgian  of  Prince  Tschawtschawadze. 


1 09 


THE  STARS 

TlflTH  joy  in  your  heart  and  a  smile  on  your  lips 

You  admired  the  soft  Southern  night, 
And  do  you  know  when  your  beautiful  eyes 
Were  remarked,  all  the  stars  at  the  sight 
Were  put  out  and  turned  faint  in  the  skies? 

This  morning  they  brought  their  complaint  to  the 
sun — 

"In  ether  a  star  quite  unknown! 
If  to-night  this  same  comet  shall  shine 

Whose  radiance  extinguished  our  own, 
We  must  all,  our  old  splendor  resign!" 

And  sadly  the  sun  made  them  answer, — "Alas! 

Before  her,  I  am  pale  at  high  noon; — 
See,  to-day  all  is  rainy  and  cold, 

'Tis  the  trace  of  defeat  seen  so  soon, 
'Tis  the  trace  of  eclipse  you  behold!" 

O  happy  the  being  whose  life  from  afar 
Shall  be  lighted  by  such  a  lode  star! 

From  the  Caucasian  of  Prince  Oberlaine. 


no 


WHISPERS  AND  THE  TIMID  BREATHING 

VXf HISPERS  and  the  timid  breathing, 

Nightingale's  long  trill, 
Silver  moonlight  and  the  rocking 

Of  the  dreaming  rill; 
Nightly  light  and  nightly  shadow, 

Shadow's  endless  lace — 
Neath  the  moon's  enchanted  changes 

The  Beloved's  face. 
Blinking  stars  as  flash  of  amber, 

Snowy  clouds  on-rush, 
Tears  and  happiness  and  kisses — 

And  the  dawn's  red  blush! 

FROM  "FETE  CHENCHINE." 


Fete  Chenchine,  so-catted,  has  no  rival  in  impres- 
sionistic effects.  The  above  without  a  verb  is  a  good 
instance  of  his  peculiar  caprice. 


in 


THE  TALES  OF  THE  STARS 

'TpHE  stars  of  beauty,  the  stars  of  purity, 

Have   whispered   their   wonderful  tales  to  the 

flowers ! 
The  satiny  petals  have  smiled  as  they  heard, 

And  trembled  the  emerald  leaves  'mid  their  bowers. 
But  infatuate  flowers  deep  drunken  of  dew 

Repeated  these  tales  to  the  light  swaying  breeze — 
Rebellious  winds  listening  swift  caught  them  up 
And  sang  them  o'er  earth,  o'er  the  mountains  and 

seas! 
Now,  as  the  earth  under  Springtime's  caresses 

With  her  verdant  tissue  is  covered  once  more, 
All  my  madly  passionate  soul  overflows 

With  dreams  of  the  stars  and  their  radiant  lore! 
And  throughout  these  days  of  my  sorrow  and  toil, 
Through  these  nights  of  my  loneliness,  darkness  and 

rain — 

Stars  wondrous  and  radiant,  I  give  back  to  you, 
Your  ethereal  fancies  again! 

FOFANOW. 


112 


ONE   DEAREST   PAIR   OF   EYES   I    LOVE 

/~\NE  dearest  pair  of  eyes  I  love! 

Entranced  my  heart  beneath  their  spell — 
Clearer  than  clearest  ray  they  are, 
But  where  they  are — I  will  not  tell! 

Through  silk  of  wondrous  lashes  soft, 
Their  burning  beams  are  flashing  bright, 

Upon  my  knees,  a  slave  I  kneel — 
Before  those  miracles  of  light. 

The  storm  is  growing  in  my  soul, 

Tempest  of  pain  and  happiness — 
I  love  one  dearest  pair  of  eyes, 

But  whose  they  are — I'll  not  confess! 

GIPSY  SONG. 


A  GIPSY  SONG 

DILE  of  embers  in  the  darkness, 

Sparks  expire  as  they  fly — 
Night  conceals  us  from  the  passing, 
On  the  bridge  we'll  say  good-by! 

At  the  parting,  shawl  of  crimson 
Cross  my  shoulders  thou  shalt  lace, 

At  an  end  the  days  swift  passing, 
Met  within  this  shaded  place. 

In  the  morning,  with  first  splendour, 
All  my  life  compelled  to  rove — 

I  shall  leave  with  other  gipsies 
Seeking  happiness  and  love. 

How  does  fate  foretell  my  future? 

Who,  to-morrow  by  my  side, 
O'er  my  heart  will  loose  with  kisses 

Knots  by  thy  dear  hand  fast  tied? 

Flash  of  embers  in  the  darkness, 

Sparks  expire  as  they  fly — 
Night  conceals  us  from  the  passing, 
On  the  bridge  we'll  kiss  good-by! 

POLONSKY. 
114 


AT   LAST 

word, — not  e'en  a  sigh,  my  darling! 
Together  now  the  silence  keeping; 
In  truth  as  o'er  some  grave  stone  leaning 

The  silent  willows  low  are  weeping, 
And  drooping  o'er  it  so  are  reading — 

I  read  in  thy  tired  heart  at  last, 
That  days  of  happiness  existed, 
And  that  this  happiness  is  past. 

PLESTCHEEFF. 


BY  AN  OPEN  WINDOW 

CO  sultry  is  the  hour  I  throw  the  casement  wide, 

Fall  on  my  knees  beside  it  in  the  gloom, 
And  cowering  before  me  lies  the  balmy  night, 

Wafted  aloft  the  breath  of  lilac  bloom. 
The  nightingale  her  plaint  from  a  near  thicket  sobs, 

I  listen  to  the  singer,  share  the  woe — 
With  a  longing  for  my  home  within  me  waking, 

The  home  I  looked  on  last  so  long  ago! 
And  the  nightingales  of  home  with  their  familiar  song ! 

And  lilacs  in  my  childhood  gardens  fair! 
How  the  languors  of  the  night  possess  my  being, 

Restoring  my  lost  youth  on  perfumed  air! 

THE  GRAND  DUKE  CONSTANTINE. 


116 


WITH  THE  GREATNESS  OF  GOD 

AX7ITH  the  greatness  of  God  all  my  heart  is  on 

fire! 

Such  a  beauty  to  earth  does  He  lend — 
He  created  eternity  for  our  desire, 
To  our  torment  has  given  an  end. 

NADSON. 


117 


THE   POET 

have  I  sung  in  idle  hours  of  dreaming, 
With  verse  harmonious  and  sweet-voiced  rhyme, 
I  have  sung  only  when  in  tempest  raging 
My  soul  was  shaken  by  a  power  sublime! 
For  each  thought  I  have  suffered  and  been  troubled, 
No  dream  creation  painless  from  me  torn, 
The  blessed  lot  of  Poet  not  seldom  seeming 
A  cross  intolerable  to  be  borne! 
Oft  have  I  sworn  to  evermore  keep  silence, 
To  mingle  and  be  lost  among  the  crowd, 
But  when  the  winds  once  more   their   strings  are 

sweeping — 

JEolian.  harps  must  ever  cry  aloud; 
And  in  the  Spring  the  flooding  streams  on-rushing 
Must  downward  plunge  into  the  vale  below, 
When  from  the  rocky  peaks'  high  towering  summits 
The  sun's  warm  rays  have  melted  off  the  snow. 

NADSON. 


118 


TO  THE   MUSE 

'TPAKE  from  thy  brow  the  laurel — cast  it  forth! 

May  it  in  dust  lie  'neath  thy  feet; 
The  blood-flecked  thorn  crown  hurl  away — 
As  witness  of  thy  pain  alone  'tis  meet! 

NADSON. 


119 


A  FRAGMENT 

JJARK!  The  storm  petrel  shrieks! 

Reef  the  sail  canvas  fast! 

See,  the  Spirit  of  Storm  with  wildest  commotion 
Has  to  heaven's  arched  vaulting  his  coronal  pressed, 
While  his  heels  dam  the  flood  gates  of  ocean! 
Furious  storm-cloud  his  undulent  drapery, 
Girded  round  with  the  lightning  wide  flashing; 
O'er  the  sea's  leaden  billows  from  his  threatening 

hand 
The  thunderbolts  are  sent  crashing! 

NADSON. 


1 20 


IN  MAY 

'"PO  you, — you  beggars  in  the  forests  proud, — 
To  pastures  free,  my  hasting  foot  returns! 
The  May  is  come!     It  smiles  and  laughs  aloud — 
For  Love's  desire,  freedom's  bliss,  it  yearns. 
Erased  the  marks  of  city  slavery, 
Here  where  the  sun  gleams  gold  through  azure  hours- 
Here  wrests  the  spirit  from  all  bondage  free, 
The  fields  grown  green  and  the  syringa  flowers! 

Storms  only,  brought  my  youthful  morning  red, 
And  night  of  soul  and  wilderness  of  pains — 
All  in  my  breast  is  hushed  and  numb  and  dead, 
The  pulsing  fever  stopped  within  my  veins; 
Yet  here,  where  Nature  winds  a  wreath  for  me, 
The  arms  stretch  forth, — the  weary  glance  devours- 
And  the  arrested  soul  exults  and  sings, 
The  fields  grow  green  and  the  syringa  flowers! 

NADSON. 


121 


IN   MEMORY   OF   N.  M.  D. 

CLUMBER  soft,— oh  thou  my  heart's  beloved! 

Death  alone  can  bring  eternal  rest, 
And  in  death  alone  'neath  tearless  lashes 
Shall  thine  eyes  forever  close  be  pressed; 
In  thy  grave,  no  more  with  fevered  doubting 
Shall  thy  golden  head  tormented  be, 
In  thy  grave  alone,  thou'lt  never  long  for 
All  that  life  so  cruel  robbed  from  thee. 

Through  the  grass,  white  yet  thy  coffin  shining— 
O'er  thy  grave  the  cross  is  looming  white, 
As  in  silent  prayer  unto  the  heavens 
Mournful  gleaming  through  the  cold  blue  night. 
Now  with  tears  my  eyes  are  overflowing, 
Hotter  tears  I  ne'er  before  have  wept — 
All  the  bitter  sorrows  I  have  suffered 
In  one  sobbing  cry  together  swept. 

Spring  across  the  fields  will  be  returning 
With  her  silver  nightingales,  ere  long — 
Through  the  dusky  nights  of  silence  piercing 
E'en  thy  grave  with  her  inspiring  song, 
And  the  lindens  whispering,  will  murmur — 
Breathless  die  away,  and  sighing  cease, 
But  thou — slumber  soft  my  heart's  beloved, 
Death  alone  can  bring  eternal  peace! 

NADSON. 
122 


AT  THE  GRAVE  OF  N.  M.  D. 

pORSAKEN  am  I  now  anew, 

Night's  sombre  wings  o'er  me  descending, 
As  tearless,  meditating,  dumb — 
Above  thy  grave's  low  mound  I'm  bending. 
Naught  offers  recompense  for  thee, 
No  hopes  console  or  fears  betray — 
For  whom  now  live  I  in  this  world? 
For  whom  on  earth  now  shall  I  pray? 

NADSON. 


123 


IN  DREAMS 

IN  my  dreams  I  saw  heavens  bespangled, 

With  silvery  stars  all  adorned, 
And  pale  green  sorrowing  willows 

Drooping  low  o'er  the  pale  blue  pond. 
I  saw  in  syringa  embowered 

A  cottage,  and  thou  my  heart's  Dove — 
And  bowed  was  thy  little  curly  head, 

My  beautiful  sad  pale  Love! 

Thou  wert  weeping,  the  teardrops  shining 

Were  flowing  from  thy  yearning  gaze, 
For  love  the  roses  wept  also, 

For  joy  sobbed  the  nightingale. 
And  every  tear  found  consoling — 

A  greeting  from  near  and  from  far, 
The  garden  was  lit  by  a  glow  worm, 

Enraptured  the  heavens  a  star! 

NADSON. 


124 


THE  OLD  GREY  HOUSE 

hospitable  old  grey  house, — A  greeting  unto 
thee! 

With  thy  red  ochre  roofs, — vine  trellised  o'er; 
The  gardens  fair  laid  forth  in  blooming  luxury, 
The  fields  in  glinting  beads  of  dew  stretched  end- 
lessly, 
Beneath  the  sun's  fresh  kiss  a  gilded  floor! 

A  silvery  ribbon  through  the  flowering  green — 

The  icy  billows  of  the  river  foam, 
Above  her  clay-white  strand  are  verdant  arbours  seen, 
Spun  o'er  with  leafage,  through  the  waking  land  be- 
tween, 

And  where  the  azure  river's  currents  roam. 

Prattling,  the  river  lisps  of  love  and  of  repose — 

And  in  the  distance  shimmers,  faintly  dies; 
A  flower,  secret  listening  as  its  message  flows, 
A  roguish  kiss  of  gratitude  in  fragrance  blows, 
While  beckoning  stars  smile  from  the  silent  skies. 

I  greet  thee,  home  and  mother !    Joys  now  charm  anew 

That  I  believed  but  once  to  me  were  given; 
Thee  I  forsook, — and  now  my  last  expiring  view 
Turns  back  from  fruitless  conflict  to  thy  vision  true, 
Love,  no  more  mine,  nor  hope  nor  peace  of  heaven ! 
"5 


THE  OLD  GREY  HOUSE 

Mother  and  home,  I  greet  thee!    O  caress  thy  child 

Whom  weariness,  regret,  despair  assail — 
With  sighing  of  thy  groves  in  the  soft  wind  beguiled, 
With  sunbeams  of  thy  Springtime  smiling  fair  and 

mild, 
And  with  the  liquid  song  of  nightingales! 

Let  me  once  only  weep  in  the  assurance  blest 

That  I  am  not  girt  round  with  human  scorn, 
Let  me  but  sleep  once  more  upon  thy  gentle  breast, 
Forgetting  in  my  childish,  deeply-dreaming  rest 
The  loss  and  failure  of  my  life  forlorn! 

NADSON. 


126 


CALL   HIM   NOT   DEAD 

/~\A.LL  him  not  dead, — he  lives! 

Ah  you  forget 

Though  the  pyre  lies  in  ruin  the  fires  upward  sweep, 
The  string  of  the  harp  is  broken  but  her  chords  still 

weep, 
The  rose  is  cut  but  it  is  blooming  yet! 

NADSON. 


127 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

ALEXANDER  SERGJEWITSCH  PUSHKIN  was  born  at 
Moscow,  May  26,  1799.  His  first  poetical  influence 
came  from  his  nurse  who  taught  him  Russian  tales, 
legends  and  proverbs,  and  to  whom,  with  loving  rec- 
ognition, he  was  grateful  to  the  end  of  his  life.  His 
grandmother  and  this  nurse  taught  him  to  read  and 
write.  In  his  seventh  year  he  began  the  study  of 
foreign  languages;  German,  French, — which  was  as 
his  mother  tongue  to  him, — and  mathematics,  which 
he  hated.  At  nine  the  passion  of  reading  possessed  him 
and  he  devoured  his  father's  library,  which  included 
the  French  erotics,  Voltaire,  Rousseau,  and  the  En- 
cyclopedists. His  own  first  poetical  work  was  in- 
deed written  in  French.  In  1811  he  was  sent  to  the 
school  then  just  opened,  at  Tzarskoe  Selo  near  Peters- 
burg. Here,  however,  he  learned  little,  the  students 
being  more  interested  in  drinking  bouts  and  platonic 
relations  with  barmaids  and  actresses;  in  spite  of 
which  the  art  of  poetry  was  worshiped  and  Pushkin 
with  others  among  his  friends  published  a  journal  in 
manuscript  that  circulated  their  own  contributions. 
He  was  later  graduated  from  the  Alexandrovsky 
Lyceum,  the  highest  and  most  splendid  civil  school  of 
that  time,  and  entered  the  department  of  Foreign 
Affairs.  Although  he  retained  his  entire  sympathy 
with  the  poetic  brotherhood,  he  now  frequented  the 

129 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

salons  of  the  titled  aristocracy  and  gave  himself  up  to 
the  vortex  of  luxurious  society.  Because  of  his  politi- 
cal satires  and  too  free  opposition  to  the  government, 
he  was  sent  away  from  Petersburg  in  1820,  and  at- 
tached to  the  Governor  of  the  South  Russian  Colonies. 
Here  he  fell  ill  and  went  to  the  Caucas  for  recovery. 
It  was  in  the  Crimea  that  he  learned  to  know  and 
wonder  over  Byron.  He  remained  three  years  in  Kis- 
chinew, — in  the  service  chiefly  of  wine,  women  and 
cards.  In  1823  he  went  to  Odessa  as  attache*  of  the 
General  Governor  Count  Woronzow,  whom  he  pur- 
sued with  biting  epigram, — until  in  1824  the  poet  of 
"Russian  and  Ludimilla"  was  removed  from  the  serv- 
ice and  banished  to  his  mother's  estates  by  order  of 
the  Tsar  Alexander  I. 

These  two  years  of  unwilling  retirement  worked 
mightily  upon  the  soul  of  Pushkin  so  filled  with  storm 
and  stress.  He  struck  off  the  chains  of  Byron  and 
steeped  himself  in  Shakespeare;  writing  at  this  period 
his  drama  of  Boris  Godunow.  Nicholas  First  am- 
nestied the  poet  and  recalled  him  to  Moscow,  in- 
stituting himself  censor  of  all  future  work;  likewise 
placing  Pushkin  under  the  all-powerful  Chief  of  Police 
Count  Benkendorff,  from  whom  Lermontoff  later  had 
also  so  much  to  suffer.  In  1829  Pushkin  went  to 
the  Caucas  and  with  the  Russian  army  to  Erzum. 
In  1830  he  inherited  from  his  father  the  management 
of  Kut  Boldino,  where  he  finished  "Onegin,"  and 
three  other  dramas.  In  1831  he  was  married  at  Mos- 
cow to  Natalie  Nikolajewa  Gontsharowa,  whose  beauty 
had  for  three  years  held  him  in  her  toils.  In  the 

130 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

same  year  he  was  appointed  to  the  foreign  office  again. 
In  1833  the  poem  was  published  that  won  him  his  fatal 
commission.  Pushkin  fell,  as  did  Lermontoff  later, 
a  victim  of  the  envy  and  hatred  of  high  society.  At 
this  time  many  responsible  positions  were  held  in 
Russia  by  Frenchmen  who  had  fled  the  terrors  of  the 
revolution.  Such  a  French  emigre"  was  D'Anthes, 
who  pursued  the  wife  of  Pushkin  with  his  compromis- 
ing attentions,  until  at  a  ball  the  poet  was  almost 
forced  to  challenge  him.  The  pistol  duel,  that  Count 
Benkendorff  with  cunning  foresight  did  nothing  to 
prevent,  took  place  June  27,  1837.  In  two  days  the 
poet  was  free  from  his  tormentors  forever.  He  was 
buried  in  the  Swatjatorgorische  cloister  and  statues 
have  been  erected  to  his  honor  at  Petersburg,  Moscow 
and  many  other  cities  throughout  Russia.  His  service 
to  Russian  literature  can  only  be  compared  with  that 
of  Dante  for  Italy, — since  there  was  practically  no 
Russian  poetry  before  Pushkin  and  he  may  be  said  to 
have  created  the  Russian  language  as  it  is  spoken 
to-day. 

MlCHAIL    JURJEWITSCH    LERMONTOFF  was  bom  Oc- 

tober  14,  1814,  at  Moscow.  From  his  father  he  in- 
herited the  love  of  brilliant  society,  from  his  mother 
the  love  of  music  and  an  unusually  sensitive  tempera- 
ment. When  he  was  but  two  and  a  half  years  old 
his  mother  died  and  he  became  the  idol  of  his  grand- 
mother, by  whom  he  was  spoiled,  until  the  wilfulness 
of  youth  became  the  arrogance  and  domineering 
quality  so  distinguishing  his  maturity.  Being  a  deli- 

131 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

cate  child,  his  grandmother  took  him  at  the  age  of  ten 
to  the  Caucas, — which  he  deeply  loved  ever  after. 
In  1827  he  was  placed  in  the  Adelige  Pension  at  Mos- 
cow, having  been  previously  much  influenced  by  a 
German  nurse  who  inspired  him  with  a  love  of  Ger- 
man legend  and  poetry,  and  also  by  his  tutor,  an  officer 
in  the  Napoleonic  guard,  who  had  taught  him  French. 
Up  to  1831  he  was  under  the  German  unfluence  in 
literature,  but  then  he  came  under  the  influence  of 
Byron,  and  from  this  time  he  was  never  free  of  the 
impression  of  the  poet  so  congenial  to  his  own  spirit 
and  nature.  In  1830  he  was  matriculated  by  the  Mos- 
cow University  as  a  student  of  moral  and  political 
science.  In  1832  he  went  to  what  is  now  the  Nicolai 
Military  school  in  Petersburg,  where  he  wrote  his 
censurable  and  erotic  poems  that  were  passed  about 
by  thousands  and  won  an  immense  popularity  with 
the  jeunesse  dore*  of  the  time,  but  which  were  re- 
garded as  discreditable  by  the  more  serious  and 
thoughtful  society.  In  November,  1832,  he  was  ap- 
pointed Second  Lieutenant  in  the  Life  Guard  Hussar 
regiment,  and  the  young  poet  now  plunged  into  the 
vortex  of  society  life  as  Pushkin  had  before  him. 
In  1836  appeared  his  "Song  of  the  Tsar  Ivan  Was- 
siljewitsch," — a  truly  classical  achievement  in  the 
record  of  literature.  In  1837  came  the  poem  on  the 
death  of  Pushkin,  that  stirred  the  aristocratic  world 
and  caused  his  banishment  to  the  Caucas  by  the  Em- 
peror Nicholas  I.  In  April  of  the  year  1840  he  was 
again  banished  to  the  Caucas  for  his  duel  with  the  son 
of  the  historian  de  Barante,  where  he  distinguished 

132 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

himself  by  his  valor  in  conflict  with  the  Tscherkes. 
In  February  of  1841  we  find  the  poet  again  at  Peters- 
burg, where  the  second  edition  of  his  masterpiece,  "A 
Hero  of  Our  Own  Time,"  was  just  appearing.  Yet 
toward  the  end  of  April  again  he  was  obliged  to 
leave, — this  time  through  the  influence  and  hatred  of 
the  Countess  Benkendorff.  For  the  third  time  he  went 
to  the  Caucas  in  exile.  Here  in  Petigorsk  he  was 
forced  into  close  relation  with  one  Major  Nikolai 
Solomonowitsch  Martynow, — whom  he  did  not  spare 
from  his  well  deserved  scorn.  Aroused  by  the  local 
society  that  pursued  the  poet  with  hatred  and  envy, 
Martynow  challenged  him  at  a  ball.  The  seconds,  as 
also  the  entire  city,  expected  a  harmless  outcome  only, 
especially  as  Lermontoff,  as  was  known  to  his  ad- 
versary, had  declared  he  should  shoot  in  the  air.  He 
held  his  hand  high  with  the  pistol  stretched  aloft ; 
Martynow  approached,  aimed,  fired,  and  silently  the 
poet  fell  dead.  Thus  his  own  lament  for  Pushkin 
came  to  be  worthily  written  for  himself — 

"The  murderer  contemptuous  gazing 
Did  steadfastly  his  weapon  aim "  etc.,  etc. 

At  the  foot  of  the  Machook  mountains,  July  27,  1841, 
in  the  twenty-seventh  year  of  his  age,  the  poet  died. 
After  a  year  the  body  was  claimed  by  his  grandmother, 
who  lived  at  this  time  in  the  Pensa  district,  and  his 
remains  were  removed  to  be  fitly  honored  in  the  family 
village  of  Tarchany.  In  connection  with  the  tragedy, 
it  is  pitiful  to  remember  that  his  grandmother  wept 
herself  blind  over  the  death  of  the  poet. 

133 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

COUNT  ALEXIS  CONSTANTINOWITSCH  TOLSTOY  was 
born  at  Petersburg  on  the  6th  of  September,  1817. 
At  the  age  of  six  weeks  he  was  taken  away  from  the 
city  to  Little-Russia,  by  his  mother  and  maternal 
uncle,  who  was  distinguished  in  Russian  literature 
under  the  pseudonym  of  Anton  Perowskij.  By  this 
uncle  he  was  brought  up,  enjoying  a  singularly  happy 
and  unclouded  childhood.  Being  an  only  child  he 
played  much  alone,  living  in  his  dreams  and  imagina- 
tion and  early  developing  a  love  for  poetry.  At  the 
age  of  eight  or  nine  years  he  was  taken  by  his  parents 
to  Petersburg  where  he  was  presented  to  the  heir  to 
the  throne,  and  allowed  to  play  with  his  children. 
The  good  will  shown  him  at  that  time  he  never  lost 
throughout  his  entire  life.  The  year  following  he 
was  taken  to  Germany,  and  while  in  Weimar  was 
permitted  to  visit  Goethe,  which  made  a  lasting  im- 
pression upon  him.  Up  to  the  age  of  seventeen  when 
he  took  his  examinations  for  the  University  at  Mos- 
cow, he  lived  both  in  Russia  and  abroad.  After  the 
death  of  his  uncle,  who  made  him  his  heir,  he  became 
attached,  by  the  wish  of  his  mother,  to  the  Russian 
Mission  at  Frankfort.  Later  he  returned  to  enter  the 
Second  Division  of  the  Chancellery  of  His  Majesty. 
At  the  time  of  the  coronation  of  Alexander  Second  at 
Moscow,  he  was  appointed  to  become  His  Majesty's 
aide  de  camp;  an  honor  he  declined,  not  caring  for  a 
military  career.  He  was  afterward  made  Chief 
Master  of  the  Royal  Hunt,  a  position  he  held  until 
the  day  of  his  death.  From  the  age  of  sixteen  he  had 
always  written  poetry,  but  not  until  1855  did  he  begin 

134 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

to  publish  his  lyrics  and  epics  in  the  journals.  His 
passion  for  poetry  was  extended  toward  all  other  forms 
of  art.  At  thirteen  years  of  age  he  made  his  first 
journey  through  Italy, — to  Milan,  Venice,  Florence, 
Rome  and  Naples,  and  his  soul  grew  large  with 
enthusiasm  for  every  manifestation  of  beauty,  so  that 
upon  his  return  to  Russia  he  was  really  homesick  for 
Italy.  He  said  himself  that  it  was  solely  due  to  his 
passion  for  hunting  that  his  poems  were  written  in 
the  major  key, — while  those  of  so  many  of  his  country- 
men were  written  in  the  minor.  Count  Tolstoy  died 
on  the  28th  of  September,  1875,  at  his  estates  in  the 
government  of  Tshernigow,  where  he  lies  buried. 

His  most  important  works  were  a  romance,  a 
dramatic  poem,  Don  Juan, — and  the  dramatic  trilogy, 
The  Death  of  Ivan  the  Terrible,  Tsar  Fedor  Ivano- 
witsch  and  Tsar  Boris. 

APOLLON  NIKOLAJEWITSCH  MAIKOW  was  born  June 
4,  1821,  at  Moscow.  His  father  was  a  painter;  his 
brothers  had  rendered  important  service  to  Russian 
literature  in  history  and  criticism.  As  a  boy  he  was 
instructed  in  the  literature  of  Russia  by  the  after- 
ward famous  Gontscharow.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  he 
began  to  write  verse.  His  original  intention  was  to 
become  a  painter,  but  the  weakness  of  his  eyes  and 
his  increased  devotion  to  poetry  decided  him  otherwise. 

He  studied  jurisprudence  at  the  University  of  St. 
Petersburg  for  several  years,  and  his  final  collection 
of  poems  was  published  in  1842,  which  was  greeted 
with  enthusiasm  by  the  famous  critic  Belinsky.  In 

135 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

the  same  year,  using  the  gold  he  received  from  the 
Emperor  Nicholas  I,  he  went  abroad.  He  spent 
nearly  a  year  in  Italy,  heard  lectures  at  the  College  de 
France  and  the  Sorbonne  during  his  stay  in  Paris, 
and  spent  some  time  in  Prague.  For  a  time  he  served 
in  the  Ministry  of  Finance  and  from  1852  in  the  For- 
eign Censorship  office  at  Petersburg;  being  President 
of  that  office  at  the  time  of  his  death  which  occurred 
in  March,  1897. 

NIKOLAI  ALEXAJEWITSCH  NEKRASSOW  was  born  in 
November,  1821,  in  a  village  of  a  Polish  province. 
His  father  married  the  daughter  of  a  Polish  magnate 
against  the  opposition  of  her  parents.  The  marriage 
turned  out  unhappily.  There  were  fourteen  children 
and  the  poet  always  thought  of  his  mother  as  a  saint 
and  his  father  as  a  tyrant, — which  appears  in  several 
of  his  lyric  poems.  His  childhood  was  spent  in 
Greschenewo  where  the  family  had  inherited  an  estate. 
He  was  sent  to  the  government  school  or  gymnasium, 
only  until  the  fifth  class.  At  sixteen  he  went  to 
Petersburg  to  pursue  a  military  career  by  the  will  of 
his  father.  His  desire  for  knowledge  drove  him 
toward  the  University,  but  his  father  refused  his  every 
request,  and  during  his  student  years  he  went  hungry 
very  often.  He  wrote  vaudevilles  for  the  Alexander 
theatre  under  an  assumed  name,  and  not  until  1840 
published  his  first  volume  of  verse.  In  his  fortieth 
year  he  brought  out  an  anthology  of  Russian  poets 
that  was  sufficiently  successful  to  give  him  a  living. 
In  his  fiftieth  year  his  health  seemed  failing,  and  he 

136 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

went  abroad  to  Italy,  where  the  disaster  seemed 
happily  averted.  The  journal  with  which  he  had  been 
connected  being  now  suppressed,  he  became  connected 
with  another  for  two  years.  In  December,  1877,  he 
died,  widely  mourned  and  called  "the  singer  of  Rus- 
sian folk  song." 

IVAN  SSAWITSCH  NIKITIN  was  born  October  3, 
1824,  at  Woronesh.  Though  his  life  was  poor  in  ex- 
ternal circumstances,  it  was  all  the  richer  within. 
His  best  biography  is  his  own  work,  "From  the  Diary 
of  a  Seminarist."  His  life  opened  under  rather  aus- 
picious influences,  for  his  father  owned  a  candle  fac- 
tory and  was  so  prosperous  that  his  business  amounted 
yearly  to  a  hundred  thousand  roubles.  A  shoemaker 
taught  the  precocious  boy  to  read,  and  he  was  put  to 
school  at  first  in  the  local  school,  but  this  was  ex- 
changed in  1841  for  the  Seminary.  Both  here  and  at 
home  he  was,  however,  more  cudgelled  than  educated, 
and  his  soul  was  threatened  with  suffocation  in 
scholastic  confusion.  Only  one  consolation  was  al- 
ways his;  literature  and  poetry.  While  here  the  first 
great  misfortune  befell.  His  father's  business  failed, 
the  house  was  turned  into  an  inn  and  Ivan,  instead  of 
attending  the  University,  as  he  had  expected,  was 
obliged  to  sell  candles,  not  only  in  his  father's  shop, 
but  as  that  was  soon  taken  from  him,  even  in  the 
market  place.  After  a  few  months  his  mother  died 
and  his  father  sacrificed  his  last  remaining  possessions 
for  drink.  He  insulted  and  even  attacked  his  son, 
bidding  him  leave  his  house,  and  the  poor  boy  was 

137 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

compelled  to  render  the  most  menial  service  to  all. 
For  ten  long  years  this  condition  lasted,  yet  Ivan  re- 
mained a  poet ! 

In  1853  at  the  opening  of  the  Crimean  war,  his 
patriotic  hymn,  "To  Russia,"  appeared  in  the 
Woronisher  Times.  This  was  received  with  applause 
and  a  circle  of  intelligent  men  gathered  about  him 
who  were  friendly  and  helpful  in  their  disposition 
toward  him.  In  1856  Count  Alexis  Tolstoy,  the  great 
poet,  prepared  a  volume  of  his  poems  for  publication 
and  the  imperial  family  sent  him  costly  gifts.  His 
condition  became  improved  and  by  1859  he  had 
amassed  a  capital  of  two  thousand  roubles,  with  which 
he  opened  a  book-shop,  hoping  to  enlighten  the  dark- 
ness of  his  country.  To  this  ideal  he  gave  all  his 
strength  and  his  money.  In  1860  Nikitin  went  to 
Petersburg  and  Moscow  to  establish  connections  with 
the  leading  publishing  houses;  from  which  no  small 
literary  acquaintance  arose.  In  the  Spring  of  1861  he 
suffered  from  a  throat  trouble  which  developed  into 
bronchial  tuberculosis  of  which  he  died  on  October 
1 6,  1 86 1.  His  trials  with  his  father  and  those  caused 
by  his  father's  extreme  intemperance  were  considered 
to  have  greatly  hastened  his  lamented  death. 

CONSTANTINE    MlCHAILOWITSCH    FOFANOW  was  bom 

at  Petersburg,  May  30,  1862.  He  is  not  a  highly  edu- 
cated man,  and  is  now  living,  after  a  series  of  mis- 
fortunes, happily  surmounted,  at  Gatschina. 

SEMIJON  JAKOLOWITSCH  NADSON  was  born  at 
Petersburg,  December  26,  1862.  On  his  father's  side 

138 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

he  was  of  Hebrew  extraction.  His  grandfather  had 
formerly  embraced  the  orthodox  faith,  and  his  father, 
from  whom  he  inherited  his  musical  talent,  died  in  an 
asylum,  in  the  extreme  youth  of  the  poet.  His  mother, 
after  contracting  a  second  marriage,  which  ended  un- 
happily, died  at  the  age  of  thirty-one,  of  consumption. 
The  boy  learned  to  read  and  write  at  the  age  of  four, 
from  an  old  servant.  At  nine  he  had  read  widely. 
In  1875  ne  suffered  from  religious  doubts,  and  even 
lost  his  faith  in  humanity,  but  his  violin  and  Nature 
were  still  of  unfailing  support  even  in  this  crisis. 
Before  her  death  his  mother  had  placed  him  in  the 
second  Cadet  Corps  as  a  "pensionnaire."  At  first  he 
did  well,  but  soon  he  began  to  neglect  his  school  work 
for  poetry.  A  poem  of  his  soon  appeared  in  print, 
and  that  same  year  he  fell  in  love  with  a  girl  of  six- 
teen who  died  with  rapid  consumption;  the  M.  D.  B. 
of  his  poems.  Smitten  by  this  blow,  he  left  the  school 
and  went  to  the  Pawlonische  Military  School.  Here 
he  contracted  a  lung  trouble  and  was  sent  to  the 
Caucas.  He  remained  there  a  year,  but  was  always 
haunted  by  thought  of  the  military  career  before  him, 
for  which  he  was  morally  and  physically  unfit.  His 
dear  dream  of  the  University  could  not  be  realized, 
and  on  his  return  he  went  again  to  the  military  school 
for  two  years  of  camp  life  and  maneuvres.  In 
September,  1882,  he  was  made  second  lieutenant  of  a 
Caspian  regiment  and  stationed  at  Kronstadt.  Al- 
ready the  young  poet  was  making  himself  known 
through  the  journals,  and  in  1884  he  left  off  his 
hated  military  service.  For  a  short  time  he  was  con- 


BRIEF  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTES 

nected  with  Die  Woche,  but  already  signs  of  tuber- 
culosis had  appeared  and  he  found  that  a  journey 
abroad  was  indispensable.  On  the  funds  raised  by 
influential  friends,  and  the  prize  awarded  him  by  the 
Russian  Literary  Society,  he  was  enabled  to  go  abroad 
this  same  year,  accompanied  by  a  friend  of  his  mother. 
He  went  to  Wiesbaden,  Nice,  Mentonne,  Berne,  was 
operated  upon  three  times  for  the  trouble  in  his  foot, 
but  to  no  avail.  His  only  desire  became  to  return  to 
his  native  land  to  die.  In  the  summer  of  1885,  he 
went  back  to  Kiew,  where  for  a  time  he  seemed  to 
improve  and  was  able  to  write  some  criticisms  for 
the  journals.  When  his  left  lung  gave  out,  he  moved 
to  Yalta  in  the  Crimea.  Here  he  received  the  glad 
news  that  the  Academy  had  given  him  the  Pushkin 
award  of  five  hundred  roubles. 

In  November  he  bequeathed  all  he  had  written  to 
the  literary  fund;  whose  Nadson  capital  now  amounts 
to  more  than  two  hundred  thousand  roubles  from  the 
sale  of  his  works.  He  died  in  January,  1889.  His 
body  was  brought  to  Petersburg  and  interred  with 
public  honors.  His  grave,  which  is  near  other  cele- 
brated Russian  writers,  is  adorned  by  a  bust  from  the 
hand  of  the  famous  sculptor  Antokolsky.  His  poetry 
enjoys  a  popularity  beyond  that  of  any  one  poet  in 
Russian,  and  has  been  carried  to  the  eighteenth  edition 
of  one  hundred  and  twenty  thousand  volumes  each. 

Sketches  of  the  lives  of  the  poets  here  represented 
by  a  single  poem  are  omitted  as  unnecessary  to  enjoy- 
ment of  their  work. 


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